The Saints Rebirth
by Shadow182
Summary: With the Daedalus destroyed and Steelport liberated, the Saints hold more power than ever. But now the Boss and her crew face an entirely different kind of challenge, prompting Gat to put together a crew of very dangerous Saints, for one very important task... (A/U, sequel to Forever a Saint)
1. You Either Die a Villain

**Freakin' took me long enough.**

**This project has been stewing away for well over a year; it wasn't till I recently re-read Forever A Saint that I got inspired to once again tackle the Saints Row Universe - not to mention, tie up some very loose ends...**

For anyone reading this who hasn't read ASR or FAS, this story occurs in a slight A/U (I guess by this point, very A/U) and takes place between SRtT and what would be SR4. In short, Gat's back, Killbane and Matt are dead.

**And a shout out to the people who'd not forgotten to bug me while I was lost in a world of writers block; the list is a bit long to post here, so I'll just say, thank you for the encouragement! (and I hope it turns out ok)**

* * *

You Either Die a Villain…

Sirens wailed, making an eerie chorus with the screams and miserable howls. The air was thick with smoke and dust as I slowly found a pathway through the smouldering rubble over the road, around burning skeletons of cars and dust-covered bodies. The sun was a red blob on the horizon, casting a vibrant, bloody light over the wreckage of the Daedelus as it creaked and sunk lower into the bay, threatening to collapse onto the docks. And around, straggling groups of people, some burned, some bleeding, all covered in that thick grey powder, shambling blindly down the street in the opposite direction to us, lost and confused. I looked up, the crimson sky obscured, and my stomach flipped.

"Jesus Christ…"

_Where do you begin? Where the fuck do I begin, how do I fix this?_

There was a creaking high above then a loud crumbling-

"Watch out!"

Hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me backwards a few paces as huge chunk of concrete, metal and glass broke free of a building and plummeted to the ground and more people screamed and scattered around it. I could feel Johnny's fingers hard in my shoulders, his breaths steady at my back.

"What the fuck were they thinking…?" he murmured. I swallowed a lump; they did all this just to try and kill me? A woman stumbled past, half dragging another who's leg hung limp and bloody and I felt my hands shake. Bloody pooled from under a slab of concrete from where a body was crushed - a foot jutted out from under another.

Finally I had enough sense to get on the phone as we kept heading up the road against the thin current of people. Lines were busy, dread filling me up with each call I couldn't get through. Shaundi. Peirce. Kinzie. Angel.

"God dammit," I croaked, the dust coating the back of my throat and I coughed. Gat had strode off, inspecting rubble for survivors when finally, finally, I got a call through. It rang, and rang, and for a moment my heart sunk when no one picked up. Till finally-

_"__Da! Comrade!"_

"Oleg!" I all but yelled, "What's happening? Where are you, who's with you-?"

_"__Sunset Park, we are massing people here. Is chaos-"_ for a moment he began talking to someone else and there was the sound of the phone changing hands.

_"__Boss!"_

"Pierce?"

_"__Thank baby mother fuckin' Jesus, where are you? Is Gat-?"_

"He's fine, we're both fine," I said, indicating to Gat and beckoning him to follow, "Who's there with you?"

_"__Kinzie, Viola… I dunno where Angel or Zimos are but- Boss, Boss I can't find Shaundi-"_

Ice ran down my spine; I swallowed hard, nodding, "…Okay, listen, she's gonna be _fine_, she can handle herself. We're coming to the park. Put me on to Viola."

Another rattling and changing of hands.

_"__Talk to me."_

"Viola, we're coming to the park. I need you at Safeword so we can start moving people there, the hospital is gonna be overflowing. If you find Angel, send him to Three Count, same deal."

_"__Understood._"

"We'll be there soon."

I hung up and stared at my phone, mind working a hundred miles an hour as I tried mentally listing everything that needed to be done, where jobs needed to be allocated…

"…Hey-"

Johnny tapped me on the shoulder, looking left down the intersection. It took a moment to realise what had gotten his attention in the wreckage of Loren Square-

Till my eyes fell on the twisted shell of the black VTOL crumpled into the road. We started towards it, picking up speed till we were running and clambering over debris, as all the shock I'd felt before began giving way to rage. _Cyrus, you fucking monster…_ The jet didn't look like anything could have survived being inside of it, asphalt crumpled up around the crushed nose that I clambered quickly onto, about to reach out and pry the windshield open, when it hit me.

This thing should have been burning. And there was no latch. And behind the dark glass, there was no cockpit. I racked my brain, my mind whirled as I clambered over the nose of the ruined, smouldering craft, trying to pry the thing open.

"What the hell?" I breathed, "What the _fuck?_"

Johnny was inspecting the craft with me now, when he cupped his hands onto the 'glass' to try and look inside. Finally he sat back, confused, shocked, furious.

"…It's a drone."

I snapped my head up and looked at him breathlessly.

"There aint nothin' in there!" he pressed, wringing his hands, jumping down from the craft, "It's a _fucking drone!_"

He punctuated his words by throwing a lump of building at the craft with so much force a crack split over the faux cockpit. I cupped my hands on the glass too, peering inside. But there was nothing. No seat, no controls, not enough space for a person to even squeeze into.

"No…"

I stared back, seeing only my horrified reflection in the glass. He was never in there? He's still out there somewhere? What if… what if he wasn't even _in_ Steelport for the fight? That fucking, _fucking-_

"COWARD!" I roared, fists slamming down into the glass, into my reflection, "You _fucking son of a bitch!"_

I kept shouting, kept punching that glass till my reflection started to fracture and my knuckles got bloody, and Johnny's arms were tight around me, dragging me off the ruined craft.

"Stop! _Stop!_" he was shouting.

"I'll _kill him! I'll fucking kill him!"_

"Hey, look at me!" His hands were hard either side of my face, and I was forced to look into his own furious eyes, his jaw set, mouth a hard line. "_We'll kill him_. But right now, we got bigger things to worry about."

I had to slow my breathing, had to focus. He was right… bizarre though it was to have Gat be the voice of reason here. I closed my eyes, nodding, breathing slow and hard through my nose. The street was deserted now, every sound was distant, though there was a high pitched ringing in my ears.

"…Ok. I'm alright," I growled before looking up at the devastation all around, the red air quickly starting to fade to purple with the setting sun. We were in the centre of the destruction, so it wasn't so much walking out of Loren Square as it was climbing over crumpled buildings and edging around burning cars, skeletons smouldering inside. My phone started trilling again - I quickly pulled it out and glared at the screen.

"Looks like a pay phone number…" I answered with speaker, Gat listening in.

_"__Boss?"_

We both nearly collapsed with relief, "Shaundi-?"

_"__Yeah, yeah it's me, what's going on?"_

"We're on the ground, on Kings Street. Everyone's at the park. You ok?"

_"__I'm fine, we're up by the old PR building. Can't drive anywhere though, the roads are completely trashed. Not even emergency vehicles can get through; if I had a motorbike I'd be ok."_

"Who's with you?" Gat chimed in with a frown.

_"__Just Birk. He's pretty shook up. We're heading down your way now."_

"Alright, meet us on the corner of King and Union," I decided, "Be careful though these buildings are still falling apart."

The connection broke, and we started off again, broken glass crunching and rubble rolling under our feet.

"Surprised that asshole Birk is still breathin'," Gat chuckled darkly and I smirked, climbing slowly over crumpled bricks.

"He had Shaundi looking after him."

Johnny slid down ahead of me, "You really wanna keep him around now?"

"I dunno, Birk is kinda the last thing on my mind right now… hey, can you give me a hand?" I called out as I edged down a steel beam, shoes not finding any grip. I glanced up - he was crouched over something at the bottom. I edged lower, feeling my feet sliding. "Johnny?"

"…Yeah sure."

He stood, turning around and holding up someone's severed arm. There was a very long silence.

I burst out in guilty laughter.

* * *

At first we couldn't see them, till Birk poked his head out of a drug store and waved us over. The entire front of the store was shattered, displays smouldering and I realised with a scowl that my first great disaster was not going to involve riots and looting. Stupid responsibility…

Shaundi was inside, hunting through tins of protein formula that had fallen from the shelves and stacking them into a box. Her clothes were torn, a heel missing from one of her boots but her hair _somehow_ relatively intact. I have no idea how she does that… she gave a relieved smile whens he looked up at us.

"I got no idea how you brought that thing down, but I'll tell ya, I'm impressed," she greeted. "Did you get that sonofabitch Cyrus?"

I ground my teeth with a fresh wave of anger, "…I don't know. We thought we had him when we shot down his VTOL but when we got on the ground, it was just a drone… I guess we won't know for sure until the day I put a bullet between his eyes, or drop him into a smelter or something…"

Shaundi snarled, swearing under her breath and throwing the tins with more force than needed and growling threats. "Pussy. When I get my hands on him…"

Gat stepped steadily over broken glass, "Y'know, not for nothin', but shouldn't we be doin' this in a jewellery store or… bank?"

Shaundi smirked, "If the crew's at the park we're gonna need supplies. Diamond bracelets don't help broken arms."

"But they to make them look better," I mused. Birk meanwhile got back to slowly working.

"Oh yeah. _Disaster relief_," he purred with a signature smoulder, "It's our duty to be there on the _front line_, with the _people_. Bringing hope, and _healing_."

Cue the collective eye roll.

"Birk, the press isn't going to be here for well over a day."

Unperturbed he pulled out his phone, quickly leaning over to Shaundi and snapping a selfie in front of the medical supplies, "That's what Twitter is for."

Shaundi shoved him in the face and stalked to the other side of the drug store, Gat shaking his head.

"And I thought I wanted Cyrus dead…"

"Surprised you're handling this so well," I said dryly, leaning on a shelf and Birk's smoulder faltered for the briefest second,

"No, no, it's really… I mean this is just like the set for Apocalypse Assassin. You know I uh, I did all my own stunts in that movie, got me nominated for a 'Splody."

"A what?"

"Explosive Action Award? It's an avant guard thing, you probably haven't heard of it."

Johnny had his eyes narrowed at the actor and something in his jaw twitched. I leant in for a second-

"…You're wishing you could slap him with that severed hand, hey?"

Gat gave a single nod. "Little bit."

"I can't believe they actually did all this…" Shaundi interjected with a sigh, as she thrust and empty basket to Josh, "I mean you'd think if they wanted to cause mass destruction they'd disguise it as a terrorist attack or something."

"They already tried that one, remember?" I asked dryly. She only cast me a dry laugh before heading out the back behind the counter for medications - she of all people would know whats what. I picked up a basket and started idly up the short aisle, scooping up painkillers and pretty much anything else without really looking; Gat meanwhile began haphazardly pulling stuff from the shelves into a basket; bandages, elastoplast, iodine, anything that looked remotely useful. Birk was mercifully silent after my last remark.

"So everyone's at the park?" Shaundi called from the back.

"I'm hoping Viola's already on her way to Safeword," I called back, "Thinkin' we can turn that and Three Count into an emergency centre. Have you heard from Angel or Zimos?"

"…No. But then I haven't been able to call anyone either."

I paused when my hands hit another shelf, neat rows of boxes staring suddenly back at me. First Response, Clear Blue, Answer…

I'd actually forgotten about it, for the past hour. It seemed like the last thing in the world I wanted to think about, or that I _should_ be thinking about. And the truth was, amidst all the chaos, the burning buildings, the screaming people, it was the pregnancy tests on that shelf were starting to scare me.

"I think this is all we're gonna get," Shaundi called out as she strode out from the back, a large box rattling under her arm. I quickly swiped my hand out before I could be seen, shoving a narrow box into my jacket before starting back down the aisle.

"Yeah. Come on, lets get back to the crew."

Gat and Birk were the first ones out, Shaundi behind me. I heard a pause in her steps as she passed the shelf, and I swear I felt her eyes drill into the back of my head before she followed us out into the dusk.

The sky was getting darker faster than usual, with the power knocked out for several blocks and thick smoke obscuring the moon and stars. It was slow goings and took us a good block before we could find road that wasn't completely covered in rubble; there were more people on the streets now, most of them shambling the same way we were in a thin river. The noise was starting to grow, too; people, wailing sirens, the _whupwhupwhup_ of helicopters high above. There were nearly no cars on the roads save for an emergency vehicle now and then. We kept walking into the sound of a crowd, finally turning out of Loren Square with Sunset Park before us.

It was _swamped_ with people; crowds thick and shambling around like zombies and spilling out of the fence onto the streets. At first it seemed impossible that we'd be able to find the crew in there - till of course Johnny pointed out that we were looking for _Oleg_, like finding a bowling ball in a haystack. We worked our way through the crowds, the grass littered with stunned people sitting and being treated or comforted by others. An ambulance was already setting up a proper first aid station, but we held fast to our supplies; _crew first_.

We found Oleg and Pierce just on the other side of the water, a patch of land where Saints were starting to gravitate; Oleg was of course with Kinzie who was hunched over her laptop - she must have guarded that thing with her life. The Saints were on the ground around them, wounded, or treating the wounded, or desperately trying to place calls. Standing tall among them, Pierce was on his phone and talking quickly to someone, his bone suit a little dirty and singed but otherwise, he was intact. My heart leapt when I saw him.

"Pierce!"

He whirled on hearing his voice, nearly collapsing with manic relief when he saw us. We closed the space quickly.

"God damn you guys had me worried!" he said, "What's in the boxes?"

"Just medicine and shit for the crew," I replied quickly, "Have you caught up with anyone else? Have you found Angel and Zimos?"

At that, his face suddenly fell, and he couldn't seem to answer. A thick silence stretched.

"Pierce," I pressed, "What happened-?"

"They're here," he said quickly, but he looked ashen, "They came in on the back of one of our trucks-"

"Where are they?"

Pierce beckoned me to follow him; sparing glances to each other we dropped the boxes down and followed him to the edge of the park. By the stone wall a huge Criminal was parked with the back end opened, the purple paint scraped and peeling off the side of it. I saw Angel sitting on the back of it, face vacant and bloody as a Saint began carefully stitching his arms up. He looked up, exhausted, lips pressing into a hard line when he saw us. I looked from him, to Pierce and back, dread starting to press in on me.

"Where's Zimos?" I repeated quietly. I knew, before Pierce tried to explain, before Angel looked solemnly behind him into the covered bed of the Criminal. Crossing the short distance, my shoulders sagged; I'd let myself think for a while we'd all gotten through this, we could have all survived this year.

Zimos was laid out in the back of the tray, reverently as they could manage. His garish purple suit was torn and bloody, his sunglasses missing, a strange lump in his neck. No sign of his golden cane, but someone had laid his hat over his chest. The others began crowding around me then, looking in; Shaundi lowered her eyes and walked away a few paces, Birk following her as if she had a leash around his neck, till she shooed him away.

"We were south," Angel rumbled lowly, "STAG were trying to raise the bridges to Carver Island; we were keeping one of them open. A VTOL just swooped…"

He shook his head, frowning at the memory, "Fired off some missiles. Thought I saw Zimos thrown clear, but the way he landed… well. It was quick."

I swallowed, looking back into the truck, recognising the lump now as his broken neck, the blood having come mostly from his head. It didn't seem quite right, for him… I suppose I'd been expecting some kind of tragic sexual mishap. My hand rested on the tray and soon I felt my grip getting tighter, till my knuckles turned white. Eyes were on me; it wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. I swallowed down the lump in my throat when I realised I needed to speak. I looked over my shoulder to the crew.

"He died trying to protect what's ours. What was _his_," I said quietly; "But while this city is burning this is not the time to grieve… We've made it clear who owns Steelport and that we're not going anywhere. And we'll make sure it stays that way."

"For Z," Pierce voiced, and everyone consented. After a moment of quiet I continued,

"There's work to do. We need to get in touch with everyone, get the crews together," I looked to the Saints tending Angel, "See if you can have Zimos moved, we need him kept safe till we can make better arrangements."

"Yes Boss."

I closed my eyes a moment, letting the cold, steely sensation settle me. There was work to do; turning back to my Lieutenants I lifted my chin.

"Let's get back down there to the crew. We're gonna need them up and running, fast."

* * *

Dusk gave way to a hot summer night, but for every person who left the park another would arrive, the refugees drawn to the single patch of green in the steel and concrete jungle. It were as if they all craved to return to the earth, all reluctant to leave the grass and trees; few wanted to stay on the island if it meant staying in a building.

Each person, helping where they could.

I can remember the old Stilwater HQ being overrun with casualties more once; times when our safe houses had their floors littered with cots for my wounded crew. And in those moments you don't have time for ceremony, no time to wait. You picked up bandages, or needle and suture, and you did what you could, where you could. You worked. I could never remember who the people I worked on were; just the colour purple. Purple and red. They had no names or faces; they were each one more part of the one bleeding entity, the one Saint bleeding and stitching itself back together.

The purple sky turned to black with the night.

And I, covered in blood and silt, sat on the trodden grass that was now nearly mud, feeling the somehow heavy weight of the test kit hidden in my jacket. I counted out the buildings I could see from this low point that had been ruined and still blazed with fire, watched as white tent after white tent grew from the ground, casualties and wounded huddled inside.

The people of Downtown clung together in the darkness. A short way across from me, someone had the back hatch of a Halberd open, the engine puttering away as radio and news reports loudly played from the speakers.

_"__Initially, casualties were expected to exceed five thousand, however that number is now believed to be far greater. While some are claiming this was a blatant act of terrorism and highjacking of STAG weaponry, neither Senator Hughes nor STAG Commander Cyrus Temple, have released any statement on the attack… we have the following eye witness reports."_

_"__They were dogfighting with the Saints, you could see. But then the ship, the big one, there were these explosions, and it just started tilting outta the sky-"_

_"__That how you know your city's fucked, right, when a street gang is doin' more to help you than the military."_

_"__I guess they just wanted to put a real end to it, take the city back."_

"You look as shitty as I feel."

I looked up to find Shaundi standing by me. She crouched down, now barefoot, but reluctant to sit on the ground.

"It's been one long fuckin' day," I murmured, rubbing an eye. Shaundi glowered.

"You know I only _just_ saw an actual US military chopper? They figured STAG was already here so it'd be fine."

"Or maybe they just don't want to believe a Senator would green light massacring an island of people," I growled, "Not a _gang_, the civilians." I shook my head, suddenly frustrated, "_I'm_ supposed to be the bad guy here, right?"

Shaundi blinked at me, then almost chuckled, "Not in this situation."

"But they're gonna make me the bad guy anyway, right? This-" I waved a hand out to the burning city, my blood starting to boil, "This here, is _bullshit_. They're gonna level half an island and pretend to be the good guys. At least I don't _lie_ when I act like a psychopath."

"Why are you so surprised?" Shaundi asked, her arms folding, "It's always been like that, kings and emperors and presidents, they're the same as you. The only difference is they don't _break_ the law, they _use_ it to fuck everyone sideways."

Across the lawn, the Halberd was still pounding out the news reports. So-and-So reporting. Eye witnesses. Statistics. I glared at the burning city.

"We're looking at heading home," Shaundi said, taking a step towards me, "Zimos is being taken to Steelport M, Kinzie wants to get back to her warehouse. I'm thinking' we head back to Burns Hill. Most of the injured Saints are there, no civilians."

I nodded, when it very suddenly occurred to me that Trouble was there, and had to be fed, poor kitten. Of course as much as I loved the big boof-head, there was one more pressing matter that needed clearing up.

"Alright. But we gotta make a quick detour on the way."

* * *

It wasn't the first time I'd been in the Channel 6 Station; this time was a little less bloody though. Johnny, Pierce, Shaundi, and even Kinzie trailed in my wake; if guards tried to stop us it was only briefly lest they be quickly incapacitated, so we were given a fairly wide berth by anyone else as we quickly navigated the building.

"So, any idea what you're gonna say?" Pierce asked, nonchalant once we had piled into an elevator. I twisted my lips with a hint of nerves.

"I think so. Though there's a good chance I'll just end up on air and broadcast five straight minutes of cussing."

"Eh, I'd watch it."

Level five opened straight into the studio with the news desk in the far corner, brilliantly lit in the darkness and Jane Valderama speaking steadily to a camera. I unhooked my SMG.

"-While the Government has yet to comment on the attack, we have a report."

_BRRT BRRRT!_

People screamed and hit the floor as plaster dropped down from the bullet holes in the ceiling, and my lieutenants split, Gat and Pierce on the news crew and Shaundi heading for the bio box with Kinzie.

"No one runs, no one gets shot, understand?" I announced, and there were some timid nods. Jane stumbled back as I approached but I waved her down, "Just gimme some air time," I told her, and she glanced awkwardly to the crew and nodded. I took my place on set, the bright lights suddenly blinding; some woman snuck up and quickly tried to powder my face, just as the camera swung onto me, and a little red light turned green. The scared cameraman nodded.

_Live on air. Here we go._

"I got a message for Monica Hughes and her stooges," I started, seething and impatient rage suddenly bursting forth:

"Dear _BITCH_, Steelport is under new management, and we don't answer to you. This is foreign soil now. Come at my city again, and you'll go home in a fucking box!" I spat, jabbing a finger to the camera. Feeling a little better, I relaxed, nodding politely to Jane.

"Back to you."

With that, I stepped down off the set, the boys let go of their hostages, and the girls stepped out of the booth.

"Y'know I was expecting that to be longer," Shaundi teased as we strode across the studio. Pierce laughed.

"Hey I didn't think you were bad. Could be a weatherman or some shit."

"I may have laid it on a little thick…"

"Nah, straight and to the point," Johnny said, slinging an arm over my shoulder, "It's effective. Like a hammer to the face."

"Well you _did_ just create a city-state," Pierce warned me, and I felt a smirk about my mouth.

"Good point."

* * *

Morning light crept in over the bed, orange instead of soft white. Outside the window there was still a thin haze of smoke, even all the way here at Burns Hill. Johnny was splayed out next to me, half dressed and utterly dead to the world, our feet kept warm by Trouble draped over the end of the bed. The tiger lifted his head sleepily when I stirred, a purr rumbling in his chest before he flopped back down.

I hadn't slept much; my body was starting to ache from the day before and my mind was swarming with everything that had happened the past twenty four hours. I thought I'd had a handle on everything; suddenly the future was muddled and murky. Guess I'd just have to take it all day by day.

There was, though, one more thing… one more variable. I looked over to where my jacket had been dumped by the door, a lump in the breast pocket. Quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed (as Trouble belly-crawled onto my spot) and retrieved it, creeping quietly across the carpet and into the ensuite.

The door clicked closed behind me softly, and I leant on it for a while, before reaching into my jacket and pulling out the test kit I'd been carrying around in the inside pocket.

"…No time like the present," I muttered, staring at it. "Just pee and wait for it to turn up negative."

My heart thumped a little harder, and I took the test.

Two minutes.


	2. Mongrel

**Wow! Thank you for all the reviews, it was a lovely welcome back!**

* * *

Mongrel

_Ten Days Later_

It was already early morning but still the club was writhing with life, the heat rising through the dim, smoky rooms. People were shadows in the crimson glow of the stages where fine female bodies twisted sensually to the music, slipping rhythmically up and down the cool steel poles. Vesuvius may not have been an elite gentleman's club, but it was by far the most popular strip club under the bridge.

It was also the first place Blake had managed to get work after arriving in Steelport; though being a bouncer at a strip-bar was far from glamorous it suited him well enough and paid the rent. It also allowed him to stay close to Margaret, or 'Dice' as she was better known in her gang, the same gang he used to be a part of himself.

The Third Street Saints.

Then again, that was some years ago now and his affiliation with them was loose at best. Of course working in a strip club in Steelport meant that in some small way he was still working for the Saints, and inevitably been dragged into the bloody war with the Syndicate and STAG.

But, it seemed over now. The great struggle was done; STAG was driven out, and the city now licked its wounds, slow to heal after the devastation of Downtown and Espina. And the Saints, in a strange way, were only now living up to their namesakes. On the first day for every ambulance there was a Saint truck carting people around; purple helicopters were lifting off and landing at the hospitals and moving cargo. And with so little help from the Government, it seemed the Saints were the only thing holding the broken city together. It didn't stop their criminal activities, of course; the money to fund these rescues and rebuilding had to come from somewhere.

But the fighting seemed done; it was hard to believe, but the wounded city was settling. And it meant Blake's life was settling too.

He stifled a small yawn as he wove through the crowd and behind the bar, feeling that wave of calm that can only come at knock-off time. He'd go home, see Maggie still up and watching three-am sitcom re-runs. He'd drop down onto the sofa next to her, she'd curl up into his side, tell him all about her day till she'd fall asleep halfway through a sentence.

The smallest hint of a smile graced his stoic face. They'd have Monday together too; of course Maggie wouldn't be awake till lunchtime, but he thought he might take her down to the beach, or maybe out to a movie. Normal-life things.

Pulling down the sign-in book he had barely flipped open to his time sheet before he got a tap on the shoulder. Another of the bouncers, a thickset man with olive skin. "Mongrel, man," Theo greeted. Blake nodded back but Theo had a weird look, a little tense.

"There's someone here to see you, up in the office," he said and actually glanced over his shoulder, "I got you covered till you're done, right?"

"…They say who it was?" Blake asked curiously.

Theo kept his mouth shut, only sparing Blake a 'What-can-I-say?' shrug before weaving back through the club and to his position out the front. Blake frowned after him, idly sketching down his finish time, dropping his pen and striding off towards the stairs. Out of habit, he adjusted his shirt collar, looking as presentable as possible. _'There's someone here to see you'_. He knew it wouldn't be his boss; Theo wouldn't have been so cryptic if it was. 'Someone' could have been any number of people… and most that came to mind weren't pleasant.

Blake halted at the office door at the top of the stairs. He could feel the weight of his stun-gun in the holster against his ribs, under the suit jacket. Not his; job requirement. When it came with dealing with unruly clientele, Blake had no problem being more 'hands on'. Still, since he couldn't say what was beyond that door the stun gun gave him at least a little more reassurance.

He didn't knock. He twisted the handle and pushed into the old office, taking a bold step in before freezing when he saw just who it was who was waiting for him.

"Not a bad place your new boss has got," Johnny Gat said appreciatively, reclined back in the chair with his feet up on the steel desk that dominated the room. "Bit small, but a decent view."

He had nodded over his shoulder to the view of the stripper poles the mezzanine level looked over. Blake's eyes were hard though, his mind hunting through possible reasons for this visit.

"Is Dice-"

"Hey, your girlfriend's fine," Gat dismissed, then waved to a chair. Blake didn't move and after a tense moment Gat shrugged it off, not seeming to care. He took a short sip from a glass of whiskey. The side of his face twitched a little under the thick scar that ran up his cheek; Dice had told him about Gat coming back, but… actually seeing him was something else. Besides, from what he'd been told Gat (like everyone else) was caught up in tending the city.

"Mongrel, right? You still goin' by that?" Johnny finally ventured. Blake nodded with a slight frown still over his still face. Gat nearly rolled his eyes.

"You can relax man, I ain't here to kill you. Actually, I got a job offer."

Blake quickly held up his hand, but only briefly, "Sorry. Look I appreciate it, but that's not my scene anymore."

It hadn't been, for a long time. Unless it was helping Dice, protecting her, making sure she was safe… no. He wasn't a Saint anymore. Johnny didn't respond right away; Blake was acutely aware of someone closing the door behind him, suddenly making the office feel more like being trapped in a cage with a lion.

"So… your scene is throwing drunken frat boys off strippers in seedy bars for ten bucks an hour?" Gat asked coolly. Blake tensed, his mouth becoming a hard line over his face. In his silence, Gat smirked.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you were the man for the job," he said, "And I ain't askin' much. One year."

Blake could have snorted and it took everything he had to hold back. One year? Gat kept talking.

"You do this one job and you ain't ever gonna have to clean piss off the front steps of this place again." He glared over the top of his glasses at Blake, "You're _set_. Out of the game if you want. Maybe even buy that Dice girl a nice place out in Ashwood…"

Blake had been ready to go. To walk right out that door. But what Gat was offering… it was too good to be true, but too strange to possibly be good.

"What's the catch?" He pressed. Johnny seemed torn between a triumphant smirk, and an uneasy grimace.

"You ain't got the job just yet," he explained "Gonna be a few trial runs before you're hired."

Blake only raised an eyebrow, but nodded thoughtfully. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Gat nodded, his expression fading to something dark and dangerous.

"Yeah," he said, speaking slowly, "Complete, and utter fucking _secrecy_."

Blake went quite still. He really didn't like the sound of this; something too heavy to get out of. But what Gat was _offering_…

"So what's the job exactly?"

"I just said complete fuckin' secrecy," Gat repeated, "You'll find out when you're in. And hey, you'll get your chances to back out before hand. Look, I got places to be," he said, standing to go, "Be at Smiling Jacks tomorrow. Midday."  
With that Gat slouched around the desk, brushed past Blake and left the room. The bizarre meeting was over that fast, leaving Blake standing alone in the mezzanine office.

* * *

Blake twisted the key and pushed the heavy firedoor open; from the living room of the small apartment he could hear the closing theme to _Bobby and Amber_ buzzing and as he stepped out from the hallway, Dice peeked out from over the back of the sofa, smiling sleepily. Dice was as tiny as blake was big; her hair was blonde, though dusty and darker than her boyfriend's, chopped shorter at the back and stylishly longer at the front, occasional locks falling into mischievous green eyes.

"Hey baby," she greeted; Blake smiled back and dropped his keys onto the side-table. Climbing over the back of the sofa and dropping down next to her he wrapped an arm over her shoulder, pressing a warm kiss onto her temple. Of course it was hardly enough; she slung a leg over his hips, straddling his lap and lent in, capturing his lips in hers. Blake felt the tension melt out of his shoulders, hands sliding up to rest on her waist, carefully lifting the hem of her shirt away and drink in her soft, warm skin.

Dice eventually broke the kiss, letting her tiny frame slump against his broad chest and Blake carefully pushed a lock of gold hair from her face.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Alotta the crews are still on cleanup," she said, pausing to yawn widely, "Pierce had us out on patrol for most of the day, checking in with a few of the protection rackets… y'know, TCB." She yawned again, eyes slipping closed as she dropped her head onto Blake's shoulder. He felt a little worry start lifting away and shifted to loop his arm around her, cuddling her in close. She was quiet for a little while, but eventually her eyes barely blinked open and she glanced at him.

"…Everything ok?"

"Hmn?" Blake murmured with a blink; Dice was examining him with tired eyes; it could still surprise him that she could pick up on his moods when so few others could.

"Yeah, everything's fine," he said and as if to assure her he pressed a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Just work stuff."

Dice snorted, snuggling back down into the nook of his shoulder, "That dickhead Neil isn't giving you shit is he?" she mumbled and Blake smile a silent chuckle.

"Neil's no-one's problem," he said lowly, then stayed quiet. His first instinct had been to tell her about Gat and the strange offer, but one thing Gat had said kept springing to mind.

_Complete and utter fucking secrecy_.

He loved Margaret, but he wasn't blind to her tendency to mouth-off at the least opportune times. And even then, he still wasn't sure if he was going to take Gat up on his offer; so for now, he chose silence.

Soon Dice' breathing had deepened and evened out, accompanied on occasion by a small, purring snore. He shifted, slipping an arm under her knees and lifting her up off the sofa, carrying her through the cramped apartment to their room, the one with the crack in the plaster above the bed.

_Maybe buy that Dice girl a nice place?_

Dice made a good income, but most of it wound up going back into her 'career'. Money had never really worried her. Blake struggled inwardly as he laid his girlfriend down on their bed, sitting on the mattress next to her. Outside the sky was barely beginning to lighten but it was hard to see, when the view showed only the red brick of the opposite apartment block. It was an enticing thought, being able to take care of his girl like she deserved… But knowing Johnny Gat the job was not going to be simple, easy, _or_ legal and after having done what he had to do to leave the Saints… he leant forward on his knees, pushing his fingers through his sandy hair.

Nothing could ever be simple, could it?

* * *

That midday, Blake found himself standing out the front of Smiling Jack's diner still debating with himself. It seemed ridiculous to have come all this way and at least not hear Gat out with his offer, and so with a frown he gripped the door handle hard and pushed into the diner, the small bell above his head chiming away.

The Saints were easy to spot and not only for the flags they wore; all four of them turned expectantly to see who'd arrived, all sagging with disappointment. They had secluded themselves in one of the furthest booths and with a steadying breath, Mongrel started his slow walk over.

Of the four at the table already, two were Saints he didn't recognise; a young Asian man with a short mohawk, the other, a sullen, pale-skinned man with thick black hair and cold eyes, every inch of his arms and neck covered in tattoos. Blake turned his attention instead to the only real familiar face at the table, Tasha.

Her panther-like body was leaner still, muscles rippled under her smooth chocolate skin. The tall, willowy woman had always kept herself in immaculate shape and health but now there seemed an edge of obsession to it, barely an ounce of fat covering her. Her fluffy black hair was partially braided back in corn rows to her crown and ending in a full halo of curls, strangely soft and feminine.

The only other person at the table Mongrel recognised was Fatima, a prettyish, olive-skinned girl who'd bleached her brown hair blonde and had a penchant for piercings. Her full, dark lips sported at least three hoops alone. She flashed him a wide smile and a wink.

"Surprised to see you here," she greeted, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Mongrel only nodded his greeting and forced a small enough smile as he slid down into the booth across from a smirking Tasha. The young Asian man leant over the table with an outstretched hand to Blake.

"Hey. I'm Dan," he said coolly with an easy smile, then nodded at the last man at the table, "That's Cass."

The pale man didn't respond, instead drawing out a cigarette and lighting up. A passing waitress held back her disapproving look, not about to ask him to put it out.

Blake shook Dan's hand and nodded.

"Mongrel," he replied. Dan slumped back down into his seat.

"You new, huh?" he asked, "I ain't seen you around much before."

"He's not new," Tasha said, leaning back with her long, lithe arms stretched out on the back of the booth, "Old Mongrel's been around as long as I have. Or he _would_ have been." Her tone had a tiny bit of bite to it but her smile was welcoming, "And still Gat asked you here?"

"Hey, I was as surprised as you," he conceded but at that point the front door to the diner practically crashed open, and Johnny Gat himself (seemingly incapable of not making a grand and noisy entrance) strode in, paused, scanned the room, then began closing in slowly on the assembled crew.

In the light of day Gat actually looked… a little drawn. Something other than ten years of gang life was weighing on him. He drew up a chair to the head of the table, turning it around and slumping down onto it, arms crossed on the back of the chair.

"Glad to see you could make it," he said flatly, "Now I get you're all wonderin' why you're here, don't worry, you'll find out soon enough if you take the job. There's a reason I hand picked you motherfuckers and you aint the only ones so far. But I seen what you can do. Tough, reliable. Hell, some'o you are even loyal."

Blake felt fleeting but pointed glances at him in that moment, but Gat ploughed on.

"Still, just seein' you do some cold killing or surviving a drive-by doesn't mean you're in, cos I aint looking for good. I'm lookin' for unbeatable."

"Does the Boss know about this?" Dan asked and Gat snapped a glare at him so cold and hard it was almost uncharacteristic.

"Yo anyone say it was Qn'A time?" He asked lowly.

"…N-"

"Then keep your fuckin' mouth shut," he snapped pointedly, looking tiredly back to the assembled crew. "…Where was I?"

"Unbeatable."

"Right. This job could take a year," he started up again flatly, glaring them all down, "For that year, you don't own yourself. You move where you're told to move, take a bullet if we want you to."

A thick, stunned silence fell over the small assembled crew and Gat smirked, the scarred half of his face unmoving, "Course, as fuckin' irresistible as that idea sounds you're probably wonderin' what kinda payment you're looking at."

The crew nodded, a few leaning forward curiously. Gat watched them all levelly.

"Right now the offer's at five-G's a week."

"_Five grand_ a _week?_" Fatima exclaimed, "Are you for real?"

"Not including tips from any side jobs we might need you to run, rent you need covered," Johnny said with a nod as Fatima and Dan looked at each other excitedly.

Gat cleared his throat, "Keep in mind though, there's only four places there. And like I said, you 'aint the only people I'm lookin' at."

"I'm in," Cass suddenly voiced, lazily drawing on his cigarette, "I'll do these tests."

"Sure?"

"You want the baddest motherfuckers in the Saints don't you?" he asked coolly. Dan nodded enthusiastically then.

"Five G's a week man, I'm in."

The others readily agreed in kind, only Blake remained silent. Gat's eyes were shielded by his shades, but Blake could still feel the scrutinising glare.

"…Mongrel?"

"I did what I had to do to get out of this business," he said after a moment, staring down at the linoleum table, "And you're asking for a _year_ of my life."

"That was the offer."

"…Listen I-"

He was cut off as a phone started ringing, loudly buzzing a thrashing guitar riff. Gat retrieved his phone without looking at the caller ID.

"Hold that thought," he said, clicking to answer, standing and taking a few steps away from the table. "Hey, sup?"

"Blake are you serious?" Tasha hissed lowly, leaning forward over the table, "You could be makin' more than _ten times_ what you are at that seedy-ass strip club."

"Hey don't encourage him," Dan piped up before Blake could retaliate, "He doesn't want in, he doesn't want in. Makes one less competitor and _I_ aint gonna argue."

Mongrel leant back in the booth, not saying anything. Not because he had nothing to retort with, but because he was more interested in the one-sided conversation Gat was having and any information he could pick up from it.

"Don't worry about it, I got- hn…? Yeah, they are… Tash, Mongrel, Cass, Xiao and Fats…" Gat blinked over at Mongrel then, his expression steely.

"No. Not yet… I-" he paused then gave a dark laugh at whatever was said, "Sure, sure I will. How you feelin'…? Pierce and Shaundi there yet? …Aight, I'll see you soon."

Blake frowned thoughtfully and turned his gaze forward, Gat walking back over to the table.

"Sorry to cut this meetin' short but I got shit to take care of. Mongrel-" he said, glaring down at him, "The Boss told you to stick your tampon in and do the fuckin' trial. Her words, not mine."

There were a few coughs and derisive laughs around the table and Mongrel held back his scowl.

"…I never said I wasn't in."

"Glad we're seein' eye to eye," Gat said coolly, taking a pen from his pocket, grabbing a napkin and scribbling something down.

"First trial run is tonight," he said, throwing the napkin down having scrawled a time and address over it. "See you there."

* * *

The car door thudded heavily as Johnny slumped back into his seat, a long breath escaping him. For a while he could only sit, staring at his hand over the steering wheel as (not for the first time) the surrealism of the situation began to catch up with him.

Putting the crew together was good, distracting. But then that moment would flash into his minds eye, that bizarre memory from ten days ago. It intruded on him, again and again…

...When he'd just stepped out of the shower, towelling the last of the water from his shoulders. And he'd walked out of the ensuite, seeing the Boss sitting on the end of the bed, watching him pensively.

Johnny smirked as he went to the closet, dropping his towel lazily into the hamper and pulling a fresh pair of jeans on - when he glanced over his shoulder, the Boss was still watching him, now with a hint of annoyance or worry. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You enjoyin' the show there?"

"…I'm pregnant."

The world came to a sudden, screeching halt. Gat froze, double-taking at her. That was a strange thing for her to say, so he figured he must have misheard her.

"…Come again?" he asked and finally the Boss shifted uneasily, trying to appear calm. But her fingers were twisting in each other, and she couldn't quite seem to look directly at him.

"I'm pregnant," she repeated. Johnny narrowed his eyes and glanced at her, up and down; she might have been a smooth liar when called to it, but she'd always been hopeless when it came to pranking him. It occurred to him then, she was was actually in earnest. _Pregnant_.

She cleared her throat, "Gat finish putting your pants on."

He did. Too shocked to really think much about the sudden announcement he stepped over and sat down next to her on the bed, eyes a little wide and he stared at the carpet.

"…How uh… how far along?" he asked. He was aware his voice didn't quite sound his own.

"If I had to guess, three, maybe four weeks…" The Boss sounded a lot calmer; but then she'd had time to process this all.

Johnny ran a hand through his hair; _four weeks. That's one month. That could mean eight more and… _His head lifted in confusion, "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but… _how?_ I thought you were getting those injection things each month?"

"Well, you were gone four months. So I wasn't getting them," she reasoned, "_Then_ you came back but shit was still so crazy that I uh… forgot?"

It was Johnny's turn to give the flat looks.

"You _forgot?_" he repeated. They both looked ahead at the bedroom wall then, a short silence settling on them. Johnny dropped his forehead to his hand, rubbing his brow with a thumb and forefinger.

"…Wow," he eventually said, drawing a long breath through his nose, and straightening. "So, what's our next move?"

The Boss shook her head, her mouth a hard line, eyes a little distant "Well I figured I'd just… get rid of it."

Johnny snapped his head up, surprised, then surprised he'd been surprised, and she'd gone pale under his gaze;

"Wh-?" "I-" "No, you go-" "You don't think I-?" "Well, yeah I mean… no-" "Cos it's not-"

They both stopped verbally stumbling over each other when they were getting nowhere fast. Johnny looked into her uncertain eyes for only a moment before tearing his gaze away, nodding slowly. She was being pragmatic; theirs were not lives that could accommodate a child. It'd be cruel, and unfair, and unbelievably dangerous.

"No, that uh…" he rallied himself, "Sounds like the thing to do."

"Well so long as we're agreed then," she mumbled.

"Yeah, yeah agreed…"

Another long silence fell. The Boss seemed to pale and lowered her forehead into a hand with a frown; Johnny reached over and rested a hand on her thigh reassuringly, but his own thoughts were jumbled and filled with white noise.

"Fuck… I'm gonna need a moment here," he muttered and the Boss nodded, eyes squinted shut with nausea.

"We can talk about it another time."

"Right." Another short silence. "Does anyone else know?"

"No, uh-uh," she grumbled, shaking her head. Johnny kept staring into the carpet, something niggling him. He should be relieved; babies were bad news, right? He'd been taught since he was about fifteen the scariest thing a man could do was get a girl knocked up. Of course… that was for one night stands or if he was too young or too poor. But then, he wasn't any of those things now.

"I gotta know," he started after a while, frowning a little at her, "You already decided what you're gonna do, why tell me?"

The Boss blinked; "…You _kinda_ have a right to know about this shit, don't you think?"

"I mean, you decide something like that _then_ come and tell me about it?"

Gat felt the Boss prying into his mind with those blue eyes, her voice quiet when she spoke, "…You don't think I should get rid of it?"

"Whoah, I didn't say-" but he didn't finish his sentence. He didn't know how. The idea of having a kid down the line had always settled somewhere back in his mind, but it was only a natural human instinct. And he'd been taught to avoid them like the plague; no, a child had never been in his plans.

And then he saw the look on the Boss' face, as she stared at the floor, the dresser, anything. His best friend, his girl… his family.

They might have a _family_… a _real_ one. An actual kid, with his _actual_ DNA in it. He reached out to her, his hand covering hers and squeezing her fingers tightly.

"We got plenty of time to think this shit through," he said lowly; she could only nod.

For a long time they just sat in silence, stuck in their own contemplation. After some minutes, Gat's shoulders shrugged with a silent laugh.

"Three weeks. I work _fast_."

She snorted a surprised laugh out, shouldering him a little, "Well if you didn't go commando all the time… though I guess me being absent minded as fuck didn't help."

"Nope."

Another beat of silence. Johnny smirked at her, and she rolled my eyes.

"What?"

"Nah, just the thought of you waddling around all barefoot carrying my son," he joked and earned him a thump on the arm.

"Fuck off Johnny," She muttered, then stitched on as an afterthought, "And it'd be a girl."

"Don't think so."

"Yeah well I _know_ so."

Gat was smiling at her, and he saw it in her eyes. He saw her change her mind before _she_ even knew it. Even if they didn't say it right then, that was when the decision was made.

They were going to have a baby.

* * *

Johnny shook his head a little when he snapped back to the here-and-now, in the car, outside of Smiling Jacks. He'd never been one to get caught up much in his own thoughts but for the past ten days it had been happening constantly.

The Boss would still insist sometimes she wasn't sure what she wanted to do, but Gat quickly realised this apparent indecisiveness was really a combination of two things; her guilt at the audacity of bringing a life into this world, and her pride, because there was no way in hell she could ever admit she was scared. They still hadn't told anyone else; that'd make it all too real. That'd make it the point of no return.

So Johnny distracted himself with this project; with the city in upheaval the future was unclear. He was determined to be prepared this time.

He twisted the keys in the ignition, and pulled the car out into the street.


	3. Like Mad-Cats and Dogs

**Been trying to get these up relatively ****regularly, sorry this one is a bit behind!**

* * *

Like Mad-Cats and Dogs

"That cunt's a fuckin' loony," Dingo exclaimed, lazily waving the SMG he held and thumping his head back against the concrete wall.

"'Course he is man, he's Johnny Gat," Pitbull replied, carefully slamming the magazine into his own TK before impatiently toying with the safety. Dingo rolled his friend a good natured, if sarcastic smile.

"Yeah mate but when he said trials, I thought, y'know, we do some target practise or shit. Not whatever the hell this is s'posed to be." When Pitbull didn't reply he continued, "…What do you think the job is?"

"I'm figuring it's some sort of elite forces thing…"

"I know, but I've been trying to figure out what for," Dingo pressed, frowning at his gun again. He was a striking young man with unclear heritage; bronze skin, dark eyes and a pudgy nose suggested he may have been part Islander, but with a generous sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks. His hair was a mess of thin dreadlocks, originally brown then half bleached to a sunny, sand-colour, but what he was always best remembered for was the lazy Australian accent and disarming toothy grin.

Where Dingo appeared sunny and outgoing, his friend was quite the opposite. Pitbull had a deep baritone voice, like thunder rumbling through which was every bit as intimidating as his titan form. He stood at a massive 6'5" and was nearly wide as he was tall, the definition of his iron muscles obscured by a layer of fat. He was dark skinned and clean shaven, both jaw and head, his black eyes and wide mouth usually impassive and still.

With an appearance like that, he rarely had to do any talking; Dingo spoke enough for the both of them.

"You think they're looking to take another city?" the Australian pressed, and Pitbull shrugged, a slight frown crossing his face.

"They'd be crazy to try so soon," he said, "Y'know, with everything goin' down here, and Stilwater to look after…"

Their attention was caught by a loud scream and more gunfire on the other side of the steel doors, then from somewhere the revving of a chainsaw and muffled sounds of an announcement. There was stillness for a long moment, then an old tube TV in the corner flashed into loud static, blinking and breaking into an image. A young lady in a skimpy pink-kitten costume appeared on the screen surrounded by enough flashing cartoon images to give a child an epileptic fit. Her near-white hair was up in two high pigtails, sitting just under the fake cat-ears perched on her head. She beamed at them happily, her pupils dilated and unfocused and her speech running rapidly.

_"Hello new contestants!"_ she chirped, _"You'll be next to enter the Super-Ethical-Reality-Climax ring of death and fun so don't forget to stay fully loaded so you don't miss any of those pesky mascots! Shoot bonus boards for extra time money bonus weapons and first aid supplies! Don't forget, earn a bonus prize by locating the Sad Panda and bringing her to the Prize Room!"_

The screen flashed to a cartoon panda crying in a cage, and with that snapped to black. The two men blinked at each other, then to the large steel doors that began sliding open, accompanied by a loud warning siren. Dingo straightened up, cracked his neck and grinned.

"Right Bullo. You get them signs, I'll take care'a the furries."

And the dim lights flashed in the concrete maze, loud cartoonish music blaring at them as neons began flickering. Gripping their guns tightly, the two made a low dash into the maze, pausing at the first turn and glancing around into the first graffitied arena. Above them cameras buzzed, following their every move; the loudspeakers above blared.

_"Alright Genki Fans, here we have our next two contestants, and Bobby I gotta say I hope they do better than the last two!"_

_"That's right Zach, tonight the Professor has really been putting these Saints through their paces with a new twist on the maze."_

Dingo swung his aim out first, spraying cover fire as garish mascots began popping up and manically sprinting about and firing, high off their minds on whatever drug had been pumped into them. Pitbull ran low and fast to the first roadblock to crouch behind, taking his turn to cover while Dingo reloaded and caught up. The smoke and bright flashing neons made it difficult to aim and concentrate; Dingo gritted his teeth and focused on the blue dogs and green rabbits, sparing two bullets on each one. His heart pumped with adrenaline, but soon nerves were starting to catch up. It was impossible to hear the enemy in here; the cartoon music screamed and blasted, and every time Pitbull took out one of the bonus boards a high-pitched voice cheered out at them, or the commentary would roar over their heads.

_"Now what we have here tonight is an unprecedented event, ten contestants, five rounds, all by special request of the previous Genki Bowl champion, the Leader of the Third Street Saints!"_

_"That was one bloody week, lets see if her crew can match up to the mayhem of the Mistress of Murder herself!"_

"Let's go," Dingo shouted over the din once he was sure the first round of mascots were cleared, both rolling out from behind their cover and starting through the rest of the maze, hopping over another roadblock haphazardly in the way. As Dingo started winding through the narrow maze Pitbull suddenly grabbed his shirt and yanked him back, thick spouts of fire shooting out from the sides of an archway.

"Traps," Pitbull warned simply.

"Fuck, think I lost an eyebrow-"

"Bigger things to worry about here." They slowly made their way through more of the maze, quick dashing having to be timed against the traps, shooting through the flames at the drugged out mascots and collecting whatever ammo they could from the bodies. It was clear however, the two were talented; perhaps not so skilled when they were separated, but over their time in the Saints had learned to work together with such precision and intuition it was almost unnatural.

It was this peculiarity that had them 'auditioning' for this new special job Gat was offering.

The next region was flooded with red lights and turned over crates, wooden signs popping up from behind them; while Pitbull carefully took them out, the Dingo's scoured for mascots, frowning when they were suspiciously no longer under attack. Then his eyes fell on a crate in the middle of the room, the slats spaced to show the contents. Something small and furry was crawling around inside.

"Oi - Bullo look," he said, quickly hopping over crates to make his way into the centre of the room. He peered inside, expecting maybe a small plush toy.

"Be careful," Pitbull warned but his friend was busy prying the crate open, the lid finally sliding off.

_"Looks like our contestants have found the Sad Panda! Question is, can they get her out of there alive?"_

"Jesus fuckin' christ this thing is real!" Dingo exclaimed, Pitbull looking into the crate. A small bear cub with uneven black and white markings snuffled around the bottom of it. It was a moment before both men realised their game was still on the clock; Pitbull wordlessly reached in, hefting the chubby bear cub up - the moment he did, the sirens started wailing.

_"BREAKOUT! BREAKOUT!"_

"…Shit."

Steel doors slid open from the sides of the room, heralding the sudden loud roar of a chainsaw, and a snarling of a wild animal; the Genki Girls charged in from the left, Angry Tiger bellowing a war cry while she swung her chainsaw.

From the right, another set of doors slid open, two mountain lions trotting out, snarling and swiping, unsure if they wanted to run or attack the first thing they saw.

_"And here's the mad Professors newest pets! It's chow time Bobby!"_

_"It sure is Zach, popcorn?"_

_"Don't mind if I do Bobby, don't mind if I do."_

Pitbull held the bear cub close to his chest, looking to Dingo who'd gone a little pale.

"You take the panda, I'll cover ya!" He decided; Pitbull moved quickly to the doorway tot he next part of the maze, just as they were set upon.

The Angry Tiger charged Dingo while the other girls hung back, trying to get a decent shot; he darted to the side as she screeched and swung her chainsaw down, feeling a tugging on his shirt and sting in his arm - looking down he saw his sleeve shredded away and blood starting to flow from the wound; it was barley a nick, but it was damn close. The woman heaved her arms to swing the chainsaw again, but he was ready this time, lunging forward and grabbing her wrists when she held the weapon above her head. She shrieked and struggled, then with a grunt Dingo shoved her backwards; feet tangling and sliding not he concrete, she tripped over a crate, and her weapon slipped loose of her fingers.

There are few things so unpleasant as having a running chainsaw landing on you.

Dingo flinched as the woman's blood was flung from the blades that were cutting into her thigh; she screamed and spasmed, thrashing herself free and attempting to crawl over the ground for safety, a long smear of blood behind her. Dingo however had ducked behind the cover of the panda's cage as the Genki Girls began unleashing a second round of ammo. With the fresh scent of blood in the air the two wild cats bounded forward over the crates, finding the bleeding woman, and descending on her.

_"Well would you look at that! Angry Tiger taken down by her own!"_

_"We're seeing one premium killing spree today Bobby, I can't wait to see what kind of mayhem and murder the next round brings us!" _

Dingo waited for the sound of their guns to stop and he jutted out from behind his cover, swiftly scanning the room for a sign of them, feeling a chill when they were nowhere to be seen in the mess of boxes.

"Get down!"

Dingo turned and ducked at the voice, seeing Pitbull in the archway of the final room, the bear tucked under one arm, the other holding out his gun, firing into the arena; three quick shots was all it took, and the girls trying to flank Dingo dropped.

_"And a nice save there from our contestant! Looks like those sneaky girls couldn't get around him!"_

_"That's right Bobby, and that also brings up their score! The prize room is open!"_

"Go, go!" Dingo shouted; there was only one short part of the maze left and they charged it, no longer having to rack up points and Dingo only spraying cover fire as his ally ran for the finish, still holding the panda bear cub to his chest.

They nearly collapsed into the prize room, the steel door sliding shut behind them and plunging them into sudden silence. The concrete cell decorated with huge wrapped up presents, but along the sides of the room, cheap folding tables were heavy with piles of cash, guns, ammo, drugs, Genki merchandise and for some reason, a goldfish. After a few heavy breaths, Dingo let out a tired laugh, slumping against a cold concrete wall.

"Fuckin' aye, that was almost fun." He glanced to his friend, who was worriedly coddling the bear cub, "Is that seriously a real fuckin' panda?"

Pitbull frowned at the bear, gently patting it with his massive hands.

"He's scared. They shouldn't do that to animals," he said lowly, earning another sunny laugh from Dingo.

"You shittin' me? You just dropped two chicks in kitten costumes and you're on your high horse about animal welfare?" He slouched over and looked the little bear over, carefully patting it's head; the creature was terrified, still breathing quickly, trembling and no longer wriggling from the man's arms. Dingo ran a hand over it's ears, frowning at the white patches of fur; they were coarse and strangely tacky.

"He's cute though, aren'tcha mate?" he murmured.

There was a clicking on the other side of the door as it was unlocked, swinging open as the girl from the TV stepped into the room, looking both dizzy and delighted. It took a moment before she could focus her eyes on them, flinging her arms out and stumbling forward.

"Congratulations! Before we go meet up with the other winners you can take whatever you want from the prize room, anything you can carry! We've got the professors super ethical mini gun that needs a good new home-"

She stumbled into a table and blinked at it with confusion, before smiling vacantly at the little bear cub.

"Ok! Time to take Sad Panda back!" she sing-songed; but as she wove drunkedly over to Pitbull he backed away, holding the bear closer. Dingo glanced over from the table he was at, hurriedly gathering up piles of cash. The girl waved a finger at Pitbull.

"That's the professor's teddy! Aww come on now he's not a real panda! Just a black bear cub we painted white onto!"

"Jesus…" and Pitbull moved the bear away from her again, "You can't do that."

"Heehee, the Professor does what he _wants_," she cooed. Pitbull's expression didn't change; he looked from her, to Dingo who'd stopped his gathering up of cash and weapons; seeing the pile of money in his friend's arms he glowered at the Genki Girl.

"You said we could take anything in this room we could carry? Well I'm taking _this_." He hoisted the bear up a little to prove his point. The Genki Girl stared at him dumbly, trying to wrap her addled mind around his logic. Dingo groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Christ, why are you always such a stubborn cunt at the _worst_ times?" he moaned. When they realised the Genki Girl had all but zoned out, Pitbull began edging around her for the door, Dingo following and continuing to blabber.

"Seriously, you don't give a shit about nothin', easy going, whatever, then outta the blue, you want a fuckin' bear for a pet? Mate I'd have a brown snake for a pet before that thing, what are you gonna do with it? You know they're not letting you leave with it."

"They shouldn't do that to animals."

"I- arrrgh… you can't just _keep_ a bear!"

"I'll take him to the zoo."

"Mate, you're gonna be the fuckin' death of me aye. Didn't you even grab any cash from that prize room? You bloody well didn't, did you?"

"Nope."

"Yeah well don't come crawlin' to me alright I got my prize money, you keep your bear…" After a short silence, Dingo slumped his shoulders, "I'm not serious mate I'll split it with ya…"

"Okay."

* * *

The Genki broadcasting system was purely online; heavily encrypted, nearly untraceable, and making the mad Professor a mint in internet subscribers and bets. However when half of the people involved were either abducted or coerced, then drugged and systematically murdered for fun it _tends_ to make the SERC a target for law enforcement. While Genki Bowl found some amnesty in the Saint-controlled Steelport, they were still not totally immune.

Despite occasional rumours it was all actors and paintballs, every now and then the set had to be struck (and fast) to be moved to a new location. So luxuries like a well stocked waiting room for contestants was low on the list of priorities.

When Dingo and Pitbull made it up the stairs to the top floor above the arena and maze, they were surprised to find it vast and relatively empty as if the floor were still under construction, some windows even without glass. The area was lit by a single workers floodlight, the only other light sources from the outside city, and the three glowing TVs set up along one wall.

In a small mob at the centre of the space, the previous contestants were gathered. It only too the two men a moment to see what had their attention; Dan Xiao was laying on the ground, occasionally writhing, but always giving a loud ground of pain with sweat shining over his forehead. Fresh blood was glistening over his stomach.

Dingo knew the other Saints there only by face except two; Fatima, the pretty pierced girl who was kneeling next to Dan, holding his hand in hers and pressing the bandage onto his stomach, and Pierce Washington who crouched on the other side, talking quickly into his phone.

The Saints lieutenant looked surprisingly calm, though his blazer was thrown off and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Eventually he clicked his phone off and pocketed it, murmuring reassuring words to Dan.

"Aight, a car's gonna be downstairs in a minute, we'll get you fixed up right. I know it hurts like a bitch now but you aint bleedin' too much, you're gonna be ok."

If that was true or not seemed besides the point; Pierce snapped his fingers.

"Mongrel, help Fatima get him down to the car, just head back up here when you're done."

The tall young man had been watching over the exchange stoically, but did as he was told. Dan cried out when Mongrel lifted him, teeth clenching and body shaking as he tensed over the gunshot wound; he squeezed Fatima's hand tighter as he was carried to the service elevator.

In the new quiet Pierce turned, dusting his hands and shaking his head, when he finally looked on the two new additions to the room. He grinned and slapped his hands together.

"Heyyy, well done boys. Sorry I didn't catch much of the round, y'know, shit got a little crazy up here. We got some bags here for your cash n'shit." On that last word his smile faded a touch, then vanished completely when he saw the bear in Pitbull's arms.

"…Yo man, you know you supposed to give that thing back?" he asked. Pitbull only shrugged impassively.

"Bullo figures he gets to keep it, a prize or something," Dingos spoke up instead, strolling over to the remaining Saints. Two aside from Pierce; Tasha reclined herself against a concrete pylon, her clothes a little bloodied but otherwise fine; the second was Cassius. He was the only one who hadn't been concerned with Dan; he stood, arms folded, watching the TV screens.

Appropriate introductions were made, and Pierce began bringing Dingo and Pitbull up to speed.

"Aight so far, we're two down. Maybe three, I mean _technically_ Fats is still an option here, but after what went down with Dan, I'm thinkin' she might back out."

Pitbull settled himself onto a milk crate, which creaked and began to buckle under his weight; Dingo set about loading his cash and new guns into one of the black duffle bags.

"Two down? Who was the other guy then?" he broached, and Pierce grimaced.

"Jaylen; he was teamed up with Cassius," he said, nodding to the lean man who'd gone back to watching the screens for the last round to start. Cassius glanced over his tattooed shoulder.

"I still came out with a high score," he reminded them coolly. Tasha seemed like she wanted to be angry, but instead shrugged and nodded. Dingos abruptly zipped up his bag and straightened as Pierce continued;

"So you two passed, and uh, I'm told that means you can to the next trial or some shit. _If_ you still want to, y'know you can back out now."

Dingos felt the weight of his friends eyes on him; the young man frowned, "Well… are the other jobs gonna be like this? I mean don't get me wrong, the cash is freakin' awesome and shit, I'm just wondering where this is all going."

At this, Pierce actually scowled a little, and rolled down his sleeves, dragging on his ivory blazer again.

"Yeah, well, I aint too clear about what the next tests are, Gat's gonna fill me in on that," he said a little sharply, before the floodgates of his grievances began to open, "As for what this _job_ is he's hiring for, he and the Boss aint said shit to us about that either. They been actin' weird sure but man, I know about as much as you do."

At that he tugged his clothes out to straighten them, lifting his chin and looking between Dingo and Pitbull, "So. Lemme know now, you in, or out?"

Dingo sighed, ran a hand over his dreadlocks and looked to his friend, who was still holding the wriggling bear cub. Pitbull nodded, just once.

"Yeah, alright," Dingo decided, "We'll go round two."

"The last fight is starting," Cassius threw over his shoulder as somewhere in the building loud music started up, along with the muffled sounds of Zach and Bobby's commentary. All attention was then turned to the screens as animations flew across them, and they began to show the maze where the last two Saints burst into the fray.

* * *

"Hey, the last two are up," Gat said, gently nudging the Boss with his foot. He sat against the wall with a laptop on his knees, the Boss preferring to lay straight on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor with a bottle of water loosely under one hand. She opened her eyes, crawling up as Gat put out an arm around her shoulders and she slumped against him, frowning at the screen.

"…They were seriously using a real panda cub for that game?" she murmured as the feed started up, and the last two of the Saints charged into the maze.

"Probably. I mean this is Genki we're talkin' about, the man's crazy," Gat replied; still, the Boss' lips twisted in thought.

"Yeah well… still, it seems a little… unethical," she murmured, unscrewing the bottle and drinking deeply from it.

"That's irony, right?"

"I think so."

Both then flinched slightly at something on the screen; faint sounds of screams over playful music.

"Man, that's gotta hurt," Johnny commented; the Boss however only blanched, and turned quickly to hug the toilet bowl to vomit, Johnny quickly pulling her hair back.

* * *

**Don't worry, we'll be seeing more of the Old Saints soon :)**


	4. Don't Talk About It

**After having looked up the official Saints Row timeline I was a little stunned to discover Matt Miller was born in 1998. Making him 14-15 years old during SRtT… I knew he was young, but YIKES.**

**I suddenly feel bad for killing him (and in such a manner, too). If anyone asks, he was _totally_ 18 when it happened. Right? Right.**

**Oh. Also, Mongrel and Dice (as most of you probably know) are not my characters, but have been adopted from MDGeistMD02's fic, being a Saint. So cheers!**

* * *

Don't Talk About It

Tasha hefted the grocery bags onto her hip, fiddling with her keys as she pressed her shoulder onto the heavy fire door - right as her phone began ringing.

"God dammit," she growled, tapping the door with her foot, "Reace! Open up it's me!"

No answer.

With a low cuss she finally managed to get her keys in the lock and push the door open, tripping over a bag on the floor in her hurry to the kitchenette. She swore again and dropped the plastic bags into the sink to fumble for her phone, though she missed the call anyway. It buzzed a moment later with a single message; Tasha blinked, then sagely nodded as she read it.

_'3 Count, 730pm - JG' _

"Second trial then," she muttered to herself, being sure to delete the message. Down the hall she could hear the shower running, so Reace _was_ home. He'd been sleeping on her sofa ever since the Daedelus attacked and his apartment (indeed, half his entire apartment building) had been blown to rubble. While she wasn't a fan of his untidiness or love of greasy junk food, he _had_ lost everything, and allowing him to stay with her had fulfilled her end of the friendship. It didn't mean they enjoyed sharing the same space.

Tasha lived in a basement apartment despite others further up the building being available, and had made a stylish little home for herself using a combination of industrial-revival and clever Ikea furniture. Most of this had been pushed aside for her weight stand and treadmill to dominate the living space, breaking up the ambience.

Then she noticed, for the first time in weeks her treadmill didn't have Reace's jacket thrown over it. And the pillow and blanket he'd been using on the purple modular sofa were no longer a crumpled heap, but neatly folded and stacked on the end of it. Frowning she looked at the bag she'd tripped over on the way in; a duffle, fully packed and waiting by the door.

Her lips pursed, and she set about unpacking her groceries. Nothing but fruit and vegetables, save for one single box of hot pockets she'd never eat but knew her houseguest would.

He soon emerged from the bathroom, fresh and dressed, towelling off his sandy hair.

"You leaving?" Tasha greeted shortly, leaning against the kitchen bench. Reace blinked quickly from her to the bag on the floor, having the grace to seem a little embarrassed. He nodded solemnly.

"…Yeah. I'm uh, heading back to Stilwater tonight…"

Tasha had known it was coming; Manny had been the only thing holding the small crew together, so after his death it seemed natural she and Reace would finally drift apart. It was still a surprise.

"Oh… Were you actually going to tell me or-?"

"You'd be back before I left," he reasoned, his tongue nudging a piercing in his lip, the only giveaway that he was feeling a little sheepish. He continued; "After everything thats happening over here right now, the Saints are spread a bit thin back home, seems like the Boss is putting off going back there. So I guess you could say I got a promotion, watchin' over some stuff at the docks. Though it means I gotta put my own crew together."

Tasha nodded, "That's good to know. Good for you. I suppose they need you over there right away huh?"

"Pretty much." There was a short silence, and he raised his eyebrow at her, "Y'know, there's plenty of room on my crew for you."

"Not likely," Tasha replied with a short laugh, "I'm not running your boys for you while you get all the glory."

"Fuck you bitch."

"Besides, I got something cooking over here," she said lightly, and started re-organising the apples in the fruit bowl to make room, "Could be looking at a special assignment."

"Oh yeah? Under who?" Reace asked wryly and folded his arms. Tasha shifted with a little annoyance.

"I can't really say…"

"Huh. Sure, sure. _Top secret mission_ right?"

She felt her skin crawl at his sarcasm and her jaw twitched; "…When's your flight leave?"

"Soon. I was really just waiting for you to get home before I left."

Tasha nodded slowly again, glancing to his duffle bag and broached the obligatory question, "You need any help getting that stuff downstairs?"

"Nah, I'm good."

A long silence stretched between them. The two had never been close, their temperaments were too alike; hard-headed, taciturn with simmering tempers and a tendency towards biting sarcasm. It made it difficult to like one another, but they had stuck together either by habit or determination, or because others in the crew had kept them glued.

Eventually Tasha held out a hand which Reace took, and they pulled into a brief hug. After a few good slaps on the back they parted, shifted uncomfortably, and Reace picked up his duffle bag.

"Guess I may as well get going. Thanks again for letting me crash here."

"Any time," she replied and walked him to the door, "You be careful back there. Don't be a stranger."

"You, too." Reace paused when he stepped into the hallway and glanced over his shoulder at her, "Do me a favour; order yourself a pizza or something, aight?"

She gave an almost-laugh and rolled her eyes, waving him off and closing the door, the lock scraping loudly.

And she was left alone. She thought she would relish it, she usually did… and certainly had been craving the moment Reace would finally get out of her hair. And suddenly, in only a few minutes, he was.

They had been the last two surviving Saints from Carlos Mendoza's crew. Her, Reace, Jack and Manny. After Carlos died they'd all stuck together, roaming through the Saints like gypsies. Some people saw them as faithful companions, Tasha often wondered if they just looked like lost ghosts.

Jack had died of an overdose a year - almost to the day - after Carlos had been killed by the Brotherhood, and still the last three stayed together for nearly two years after that. But then Manny was taken too.

Tasha cracked her knuckles. Now Reace had left, that was it; she was alone. The air was thick with silence; in the kitchen the refrigerator clicked and started humming. She was alone.

Quickly she strode to the coffee table and grabbed the TV remote, turning the flatscreen on and dialling the volume up. Football. She didn't cheer for either team playing but she liked the noise of the crowd and loud commentators. After watching a whole minute of the game she restlessly strode to her room, wrestling out of jeans and jacket. The TV wasn't so loud there so she turned on the music player on her night stand, before getting into a loose shirt, sweatpants and joggers.

Then back out into the living room, and straight onto the treadmill. The belt whirred over the sound of the game, over the noise of the Latino rap thudding from her room and soon her feet were thudding out a familiar beat as she ran, watching the players on the screen darting about and slamming into each other. And she was determined to be relieved; now Reace was gone, she could work out all night if she wanted and not be bothered by him. She was alone.

Breathing becoming heavier and a small stitch in her side, Tasha dialled up the speed and increased the incline. Her fists balled up tightly, and sweat began beading on her brow.

* * *

That night in the basement of Three Count, a small crowd was starting to gather around the wrestling ring. It was no Murder Brawl; the stands were empty, only the floor filled with a few spectators and punters, drinking and shouting out their bets to the bookies when they saw the lineup.

Tasha sat on a bench to the side, taping up her hands. She checked the time on the glowing digital wall clock, 20:17, and sighed; these bouts were grown from old fight clubs and were by no means particularly organised. She was supposed to be on at some point around eight thirty and was _maybe_ the second fight in. And she'd be going up against Hector, one of the other Saints who survived the Genki round. Tasha had thought for a moment she'd be fighting Fatima, but that girl had been put up against a boxer from Angel's gym. She didn't know if it was another Saint in the running for a job, or how many of them were actually competing. Cassius had been spotted prowling around before, calm and confident as ever. Dingo and Pitbull should have been somewhere around too.

A suddenly slap on the shoulder made her jump, and she looked up to see a scowling Angel De La Muerte towering over her, his face partly shrouded by the worn purple hoodie.

"You're up. Hector's ready to go too," he said bluntly, "You got a spotter?"

"Don't need one," she replied, chin lifted. Angel nodded, a hint of appreciation across his eyes.

"Good."

The noise of the crowd started changing as the two began climbing into the ring; lower, louder, more direct than the mess of talk it had been before. After slipping through the ropes Tasha mentally crushed the butterfly that flitter through her stomach, glaring across the square at her opponent as he bounded up into the ring, swinging lithely over the ropes.

Hector; she'd seen him around when the Saints had been facing off against Luchadors. From what she knew he'd immigrated from Brazil some years back and carved himself a comfortable niche in Steelport, and the Saints. Handsome enough, though his once fine nose had become crooked and a little flattened from multiple breaks. It was fortunate in a way; it gave him that distinguishing mark to actually make his face memorable.

He flashed her a wicked smile and dodged his shoulders about, like a dog getting ready for play.

Tasha bounded back to and fro on her toes, shaking out her wrists before putting them up in front of her face. Across from her Hector slid his shirt off, fighting now in only baggy white pants and bared feet. He cracked his neck, dodged back and forth and readied himself as the 'referee' stood casually between them.

"Alright, rule is, there are no rules. Loser by knockout or pinning for three counts. On my mark. FIGHT!"

A bell dinged and the referee leapt out of the way, each fighter edging a moment and sizing the other up-

Then Hector started; he dodged sideways, leaping, darting, and generally looking like he was trying to make Tasha dizzy - then with a sudden spin and jump he flew a kick at her. She dodged, his foot glanced off her but it took a moment to recover.

"Fucking _capoeira_," she growled through gritted teeth. He grinned back at her, still bounding on his toes and beckoned her to attack, a king of showmanship. Tasha put her fists up, edging in, trying to calculate a hit. She swung and he practically backflipped out of her way, swinging his legs around again and scooped Tasha's out from under her; it was only lightning reflexes that saved her from an embarrassing fall. She turned and rolled, scrambling to her feet and readying herself again.

Hector grinned at the crowd who cheered back at him, loving the display of dance and martial art; his manic movements made Tasha look as lithe as a rock by comparison.

_He's all legs_, she thought to herself, then smirked. He looked to be enjoying the dance more than the fight, too. In a half second she soaked in the movements, then darted in again.

Hector moved with rhythm, swinging his arms in and she dodged and ducked. He was fast as she was, and far more frenetic; a blow cracked her over the face but she held strong, determined to get close. Tasha's 'real' training was just a mishmash of kickboxing, judo, wrestling, but most of her actual _fighting_ had been done on the streets - which usually meant there was always a broken bottle or shiv handy. And despite there being no rules in this fight, she didn't see any weapons laying readily around.

Tasha might have to get dirty.

Bounding back, she watched his leg swing in an impressive and showy spin-kick, time slowing as she gouged the right moment- then ducked, whipping under his leg, grabbing his foot and yanking. Ordinarily she'd expect him to go slamming face-first into the mat but he threw his hands out in surprise, recovering with a quick flip to get him back on his feet.

Seeing she was at his back she wasted no time, leaping forward with one arm hooking his neck, on leg around his, and with a furious grunt rammed her knee straight up his ass.

The crowd gave a collective shout that covered Hector's; he swore when his body buckled at the assault, dropping down at the painful attack on his nerves. And she kept right on ramming till she had him on the ground.

Finally he twisted, furious, and they started to grapple; but it was clear he was trying to get away. Hector was more comfortable where he could move and determined to get the upper hand again; Tasha was having none of it. She locked him in hard, the two wrestling for the top; he pushed, she rolled, her arms finding its way around Hector's neck again and she started squeezing.

Tasha gritted her teeth and growled as she strained to hold him down, seeing his face starting to redden as he gasped for air and clawed at her arm; she grabbed a flailing leg and yanked him back, then thudded his body down onto the mat, muscle straining to hold him, begging for the count-

He bucked hard against her weight, but she was tall and mostly muscle; deceptively heavier than anyone gave her credit for. Sweat poured into her eyes - and finally the referee slammed his palm down onto the mat, roaring out the counts as he did;

"ONE! TWO! _THREE!_"

And the bell mercifully chimed. Tasha released her death grip on her opponent with an exhausted sigh and swiped her arm over her forehead, getting up to her feet to the cheers of the small crowd as the referee held up her arm.

"Winner! Natasha Wilkes!"

She nodded, still breathing heavily and limping over to the ropes, her opponent scowling as he got up, punching the air furiously. He glared over his shoulder at her, seemed to have a little trouble walking right.

"You fight dirty," he growled. Tasha only raised an eyebrow.

"First rule, there was no rules. I fight _smart_."

A little tired she slipped out of the ring, easing down onto the concrete and given a few good slaps on the back; clearly, she'd won people some money. It was one surprisingly familiar voice that rattled her, a small, steely hand grabbing her wrist.

"Hey! Good fight, you kicked that guy's _ass!_" Dice greeted with a grin; the back of her short blond hair was spiked up cutely, other locks flopping down over her eyes. She seemed to have gone out of her way to look nice for that night, by Dice standards anyway. Jeans instead of cargo pants, and a new-looking V-neck instead of her usual baby doll shirts. Tasha, however, was just surprised to see her.

"I- thanks… what are you doing here?" she pressed. Dice pulled a face.

"Wha-? Blake's fighting tonight, I came to watch him pound some guy's head into jello."

"…Blake told you he was fighting?"

"Uh, _duh_. He needs me here, can't do anything without me," she replied with a joking smile, when a thought struck her, "Hey, you wanna watch his match with me? I was kinda expectin' more people I knew here, I mean I saw Pierce at the bar before, and the Boss is over there somewhere-"

Tasha quickly turned her head around to where Dice was pointing; and sure enough, there she was. The Boss was leaning at a round bar table, long dark hair flopped over one shoulder, and looking a little pale and drawn as she talked to Shaundi.

"…Yeah sure, we'll grab a beer," Tasha replied quickly with a frown, "Scuse me."

And she shoved her way through the crowd for the change room, anger bubbling in her stomach when she got backstage.

There were a few private change rooms for Three Count entertainers, and were stocked better than day spas; these however were not open to the 'every-day' fighters who were on that night. The change room they were given was by no means glamorous and its best feature was simply that it was clean; beyond that, it was unisex, small, and had more hooks than lockers.

So it wasn't hard for Tasha to find Blake sitting on a bench a few rows down, binding up his wrists. A little way across another fighter was glaring into a mirror, stitching up his own eyebrow. Tasha stopped before Blake, hands on hip as she glared down at him.

"What is she doing here?"

Blake blinked at the sudden visit, but was quick to catch on, "She's my girlfriend, she wanted to be here for me." He finished tying off one of the guards, "I caught your fight before, you did really well."

"Yeah thanks, what did you tell her?" Tasha pressed angrily, "Cos incase you forgot, Gat doesn't want _anyone_ knowing anything about what's going down here."

"It's a promotional fight I heard about," Blake said steadily, staring her down, "And I'm competing for a bit of extra money. That's all I said, okay?"

Tasha folded her arms over her chest, plump lips pressing into a hard line. "You know, you could have just lied to her. Said you're working late, or early, or something."

At that he actually seemed angry then, a hardness melting over his eyes and for a moment they almost seemed to lose their blue.

"I'm not _lying_ to Maggie. Hiding stuff is bad enough right now."

Tasha cringed as if getting a headache; eventually her shoulder sagged, resigned,

"…Just be careful, will you? Gat finds out your letting shit slip to her you could be out on your ass."

A hint of a smile flashed across Blake's mouth, "Tasha, didn't know you cared," he said with a soft tease. She only rolled her eyes, abandoning the conversation by stalking the next row over to her locker.

* * *

"Jesus, for a second then I thought she was gonna whip out a strap on," the Boss said with a dark grin and Shaundi smirked back, leaning heavily on the round bar table.

"She's damn good," she agreed with a slow nod, "But I think Pierce bet against her."

"You gonna put on on a bet?"

"With Mongrel up next? I could put my _house_ on him and not worry about it."

The Boss chuckled, "No fun if it's a sure thing."

"Nope."

"Ladies," Gat greeted, coming to stand behind the Boss and letting his hands slip around her waist. She seemed to blush distractedly for a moment, easing a little _too_ comfortably back into him, turning her face and nuzzling into his neck.

"Hey, hey, enough with the PDA's," Shaundi warned with a roll of her eyes. Johnny chuckled darkly and the Boss glared back at the ring.

"Can't help it," she muttered, almost annoyed at how true that was. It was tricky enough trying to hide nausea, cravings, and insane mood swings from everyone; now it seemed she also had a constant fire lit under her libido.

"Alright alright," Pierce greeted with a wide smile, weaving his way back to their table and balancing four drinks in his hands - one whiskey, two beers and what looked like a glass of coke, settling them down on the table, "Next rounds on you," he warned Shaundi.

The Boss just smiled and took a mouthful of coke, suddenly jolting and awkwardly spitting it back in the glass, wiping at her mouth.

"Is there bourbon in this?" she asked - rhetorically, since she could taste at least two shots.

"Fuckin' aye," Pierce replied, holding up his beer bottle, "We gonna light it up tonight."

"Oh, man I dunno, I gotta get up early tomorrow and-"

"_Hell_ no," Pierce interrupted sharply, "We all been workin' too much lately and this is the first time you left the HQ to do somethin' remotely fun in weeks. Wait… god _damn_ don't tell me this shit is more of them trails you makin' people do?"

"And so what if they are?" The Boss shot back, looking to the ring coldly.

Shaundi put down her beer with a hard clatter, a glare crossing her eyes and levelled at the Boss, "What the hell is this all for?"

"Like I said, we're just trying to find the toughest Saints we got… And this seems a little more PC than hunger games anyway," Gat interrupted, his grip getting a touch tighter on the Boss' waist.

"Yeah, but _why?_"

"Cos it's useful to know," the Boss replied with a shrug, trying to hold back her agitation.

"Boss-"

"Enough." She held up her hands, giving Pierce and Shaundi hard looks; the two were clearly torn, not wanting to be insubordinate but by now too familial with the Boss to just put up with being left out of the loop. The Boss could feel her temper already getting the better of herself, now so hard to keep in check. Feeling Gat's thumb brushing her hip soothingly she finally composed herself.

"Y'know I'm sorry guys," she vouched, "Pierce is right, I've been really wound up lately."

The two lieutenants glanced at each other, eventually nodding. The Boss smiled, holding up the glass of bourbon and coke - and feeling Johnny glance at it worriedly.

"So c'mon, no work tonight, we're just gonna have some fun, okay?"

"Yeah," Pierce agreed, his smile fast returning and he held up his beer, "Cheers!"

"Cheers-" and they clinked glasses, throwing back the drinks. The Boss hesitated for only a moment, taking in a good mouthful before setting the glass down, hard.

"How long till the next fight?" she asked, on edge.

"Five minutes?"

"I'll be back, just gotta use the bathroom." And in that instant left the table.

* * *

Pushing into the ladies room, the Boss strode straight into a stall, pulling hair back with one hand and sticking fingers down her throat with the other. It wasn't hard to make herself vomit, she'd been walking around feeling queasy all day. Giving a hearty spit into the toilet bowl she coughed and flushed, wiping a watery eye with the back of her sleeve.

"This is bullshit," she murmured to herself angrily, "Just hurry up and tell them…"

With another cough she wandered back out of the stall to the sinks, dumping her satchel down and leaning forward, palms pressed into the porcelain. She had to tell them, and soon; she knew this. But still she and Johnny kept putting it off… because then things would really change.

Suddenly the door banged open and Shaundi's heels were clicking over the tile; her expression was seething and she stood firmly in the way of the door, blinking in surprise at the Boss.

"What the hell- did you just hurl?"

"…It was cheap bourbon," the Boss replied with a grumble, running water and splashing her face, scooping more into her mouth to clear the bitter taste. Shaundi stalked a few steps closer.

"Boss, you gotta tell me _now_, what the hell is going on," she snapped, ploughing on without giving the other woman a chance to speak, "These past two weeks you've been acting really, really weird, I wanna know why. Is it the city? Are we in trouble? Are you _sick?_"

The Boss held up her hands, still feeling squirmy after vomiting, "_No_ Shaundi, I just… look I can't talk about it right now."

Shaundi folded her arms, trying to stare the other woman down. Not that it ever worked so she just pressed harder.

"…You seriously aren't going to tell me what's going on here?"

"Now is not the time to-"

"Yo!" The door flew open again and Pierce strode in, an angry pout over his face. The Boss threw her hands up;

"Pierce! What the hell?"

"You're not tellin' _her_ without tellin' _me_ what's goin' down here." Pierce pointed with emphasis between the two women and Shaundi gaped.

"It's the ladies room!"

"I know that! That's what you women do you sneak off to the bathroom to talk about shit, I wanna know what's goin' down too!"

"Nothing's _going down_," The Boss growled lowly, "She just followed me here, now seriously get out-"

"_Fuck_ no I aint fallin' for that-"

And again the door opened, all three turning as Gat walked in with a curious frown.

"What are we talkin' about?"

"Jesus _Christ_, both of you, out!" Shaundi pressed and tired to shoo them, but to no avail. Gat glanced around nonchalant between the three, but most curiously at Pierce, who was still glaring petulantly at the Boss.

"I wanna know what's goin' on here," Pierce blurted, "An' _they_ was sneaking off to talk ab-"

"Nothing! Holy _shit_ I just _wanted to pee_."

"No, you just wanted to _vomit_ and I wanna know what's going on! You know what it's like to be kept in the dark?"

With both Pierce and Shaundi glaring with arms folded at the Boss, Johnny raised his eyebrows, indicating between them all, "Wait, _were_ you gonna tell her?"

"No!"

"Tell me _what?_"

"Can you all _please_ just go and we can talk about this later?" The Boss groaned as she leant heavily against the sink, fingertips to her brow. Pierce advanced on her then.

"Ohh no no no no, you're not getting out of it that easy."

"Fine I'm going to the mens."

"_No one,_" Shaundi shouted, putting herself between the Boss and the door again, "Is leaving this room till I find out what's happening!"

"FINE!" The Boss yelled back, hands wringing; everyone fell silent, and she began to compose herself, frowning between her lieutenants. "Not that this was exactly my dream situation to be telling my two best friends this, but fine, stinking, disgusting casino bathroom will do."

Pierce and Shaundi waited with baited breath, too curious to feel abashed. Johnny walked slowly over to stand next to the Boss, sliding a hand onto her shoulder and giving a reassuring squeeze. She seemed to relax under the touch, finally biting the bullet.

"The truth is," she ventured, "I'm pregnant."

And the lieutenants fell into shocked silence. Shaundi's mouth parted in astonishment, fingertips coming up to touch her lips; Pierce blinked incredulously, and took a step towards the Boss.

"…You… what?" he breathed, shock slowly starting to give way to a smile when Johnny moved his arm over the woman's shoulders, hinting at a proud smirk.

"Yeah. It's true," he said, "And I'm pretty sure you can work out why we're tryin' to keep this on the DL."

Finally Shaundi gasped, a huge smile breaking over her face, one the crew hadn't seen in a long time.

"Oh my God…" she laughed quietly, hand over heart, "We're having a _baby?_"

"Yeah," the Boss said with a short laugh, feeling relieved with their reactions, "I mean I'll be doing all the heavy lifting here, but yeah."

"I'm gonna be an uncle?" Pierce pressed, then rushed the Boss when she nodded, throwing arms around her, "I'm gonna be an uncle!"

"Pierce don't cry."

He sniffed hard and pulled back; "I aint cryin'…"

"How far along are you?" Shaundi said on the verge of gushing

"Uh, seven weeks?"

"Holy shit! This, _this_ is the best news I heard since I found out this motherfucker was still breathing." Pierce punched Gat on the arm proudly, "You work _fast_."

"Fuckin' aye."

"Well _Jesus_, we gotta celebrate this!" Shaundi decided, and turned to Pierce, "How do you celebrate without beer?"

"Steaks? We'll go for steaks."

"Urgh, I'm not really…" the Boss blanched and shook her head, "Red meat isn't agreeing with me right now."

"…_Aww._"

"Pierce, how is that cute?"

"I dunno, it just… man you're gonna be a _mom!_ With the cravings, and the glowing and shit," Pierce grinned, looking on the woman affectionately - Gat just gave a sardonic laugh and shook his head.

"Alright, can we move this outta the women's bathroom?" He finally broached; Shaundi slapped her hands together.

"Yeah, yeah, let's go get… cake?"

"…I could do cake."

And still talking swiftly and sticking close, the new family was ushered out of the bathroom, Pierce elated, Shaundi ecstatic, and both Gat and the Boss feeling a weight lifted from their shoulders…

…Some silent moments later, the toilet in the stall down the end flushed, the lock twisted, the door slowly opened; and Dice tip-toed out, staring with wide-eyes at the space where the foursome had been.

"Holy… _fffuuuck!_" she whispered, putting a bunched fist to her mouth as if to physically hold back the gossip begging to be blurted forward to the first person she saw. She edged about, not knowing if she was crazy-happy at what she'd heard or crazy-worried because she clearly shouldn't know.

But as Dice was about to dash from the room, the petite young woman saw the worn black satchel sitting on the bench, her exuberant heart dropping into her stomach when the door opened again and she heard the Boss speaking;

"Yeah one sec I forgot my ba-"

She stopped short when her eyes met Dice's. There was a beat of stillness.

The Boss' eyes flashed to fury and she charged forward, grabbing the Dice by the neck of her shirt and strode her back, slamming her up against the wall; Dice yelped and grabbed at the Boss' hands as she was lifted, her feet inches from the ground.

"What did you hear?" The Boss barked dangerously-

"Nothing!"

"Who did you see?"

"No one!"

She snarled at Dice, her grip tightening on the girl's shirt, "That's god damn right, and it's gonna stay that way. You understand?"

"Yes!"

The air tensed and seconds seemed to stretch with Dice's shallow, nervous breaths. Finally, the Boss lowered the young woman back to the ground, though she kept her grip on the girl.

"If you breathe a _word_ of what happened here, I will grind up your boyfriend into mince, cook him into chilli and _feed him to you,_" she hissed and Dice visibly paled. Eventually the Boss cleared her throat and seemed to regain her composure, almost apologetically straightening out Dice's shirt.

"Have a good night," she finished, turning and walking back out of the bathroom. Dice leant back against the bathroom wall, staring with wide eyes and eventually she slumped to the ground.

"Aw man…" she groaned and put a hand to her forehead; even _she_ knew she wasn't great at keeping secrets. Not by a strong desire to gossip, more likely due to occasional absentmindedness and slip-ups. She was a loyal Saint and had admittedly looked up to the Boss, but it was the first time she'd _ever_ been on the receiving end of those psychotic threats.

Dice nearly jumped out of her skin when the bathroom door slammed open again and the Boss ducked in a second time, giving her a quick nod;

"Scuse me," she muttered before retrieving the black satchel from the sink.


	5. To Snatch and Protect

**I want to thank you guys so much for the reviews and feedback, it feels great to be writing again - that being said I really have to apologise for the huge delay on this chapter! Had a little project for a contest on DeviantArt to take care of.**

**I also _really_ miss writing in first person… so much more comfortable…**

* * *

To Snatch and Protect

The sun had just disappeared beyond the indigo horizon when Blake drew up to the front of the suburban house, a very fidgety Dice next to him. It was a 'work night' for her, really meaning she was meeting up with her crew for a brief meeting and a _lot_ of drinking.

"Wish I didn't have to go in tonight," he grumbled, "Sometimes feels like I hardly see you."

"So blow off work," she replied slyly, looping an arm in his and tugging him tightly. He gave her a small smile.

"Can't. Guess I'll have to find out what's new with the Saints another day."

"Why? There's nothing new with the Saints," she replied quickly, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear restlessly. Blake tilted his head.

"You alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah. Yep. Just another night, y'know."

"…Okay…"

"Mongrel!" A familiar voice hollered from the porch of the house; when Blake lent over to look through the window he smirked; Bert was leaning against a column, waving him over, "C'mon inside, we just did a beer run."

"Thanks, but I gotta get to work," he called back, "Another time."

"Hey, you miss being a Saint yet?" Bert snickered, turning back to the others gathered outside. Blake forced a small smile, though the single comment was threatening a chain reaction of thoughts to go tumbling through his mind. It was mercifully broken when Dice undid her seatbelt, leaning over to give him a firm kiss on the lips.

"Be good," she said, giving him a second tender kiss,

"Be _safe_," he replied.

"If Neil starts acting like a shithead again, send him my way."

Blake chuckled lowly, "You're just looking for an excuse, now."

"I can't help it, Baby thinks he has a very smackable face." She patted the worn, pink crowbar looped into her belt fondly. Blake just smiled and shook his head, having to lean over and steal another kiss before she slipped out of the car.

"Get a room!" Someone hollered from the porch, causing Dice to reply with a vulgar gesture and worse words. Blake waited to see her inside before pulling away from the curb and finally starting for work, and frowning a little at what Bert had said.

In a way, he had missed it; of course he still found time to hang out with his old crew, but it wasn't quite the same. More things he knew they wouldn't talk about in front of him, for one. And now it seemed he'd be diving straight back into the Saints.

It had been a week before anyone heard back about the jobs, though it was to be expected, of course. Zimos had been buried that Sunday, and most of the crew operations had been respectfully low key.

Aside from the wake that is; there was no way the Saints could send off the larger-than-life pimp without a dangerous cocktail of drinks, drugs and (in some circles) radical sexual exploration, resulting in a party that kicked on right into the Monday night.

'It's what he would have wanted,' Pierce had argued, and no one could disagree. Still, the collective hangover had left them subdued while going about their business, almost every Saint seen with slashes of black in their purple flags. It hadn't bothered Blake too much; he'd enjoyed the boons of the party, though it did result in him having to carry Dice home late that Sunday night.

She'd been acting strange, lately. Fidgety. Blake had tried to talk to her about it but for the first time he couldn't seem to weasel anything out of her. Not that he could do much in good conscience; he had to hold so much back from her, too.

He was still a little early when he pulled up out the back of Vesuvius, frowning and pondering his situation and about to step into work when his phone trilled. He paused on the stoop of the back door to check the message-

_Safeword, now. JG_

Blake frowned at his phone, even feeling a flash of anger at it.

"Great…" he muttered, quickly shoving his way inside. Instead of going to the sign-in book he headed for the front, past the sofas and glowing stages. By the front door he saw the two guards standing with arms folded; Theo, and to his annoyance, Neil.

"Sup, Mutt?" he 'cleverly' said when he saw Blake approach; Neil was a tall and slender man with a long face, and tended to spike his hair which didn't help the illusion. Why, exactly, he decided to pick on Blake was anyone's guess; perhaps something said or done during a first impression that had imprinted on him. Either way, Blake had never esteemed the man enough to care about his insults, except for the rare occasion they were directed at his friends, or Dice.

"Theo, listen, I need a favour," he said to the other guard, "Something's come up, I need you to cover my shift."

"Aw fuck, man, I just done six hours…"

"C'mon, I'll owe you one."

"Dammit…" Theo grumbled, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven head, "Yeah, alright…"

"Thanks, really." Blake slapped a hand to the other man's shoulder, weaving his way back through the crowd as Neil called out a parting shot-

"Appointment at the vet? Or that little bitch of yours havin' a litter?"

Blake almost turned back - but he had places to be and was determined to not start anything at work. That could wait till after… instead he settled for the pleasing mental image of Maggie breaking Neil's elegant, straight nose with Baby's hook-end.

* * *

The very top level of Safeword was curiously quiet that night, despite the rest of the hotel being at capacity. No strippers, no music-

Just a collection of people sitting on the couches in the corner, gathered around a large map of New Colvin that had been spread out on the coffee table and weighed down with a few pistols. Blake had (to his surprise) been one of the first people there, and was even more surprised to see not just Gat, but the Boss herself waiting. Eventually the others arrived, and Blake could see they were now down to six: Fatima, Dingo and Pitbull, Tasha, Cassius, and himself. Once all were settled, the Boss leant forward over the map, red marker in her hand.

"Here's the deal. We've got new pimps moving into New Colvin Island, they've been trying to operate without us knowing. Since Zimos is gone, they've been swooping in on all the territory like fuckin' vultures." She circled a few specific streets, "A couple of these guys have been paying their share to operate here, so they're cool, but the rest of them need to be fucking dealt with. I'm not up with this shit the week after I bury a friend."

"They're workin' out of a place called Chat Noir," Gat added, "Spa-slash-massage parlour. Cos that's real fuckin' original. The place was bought by some European asshole… anyway, each night they head out with their girls, work the corners. Just like back in Stilwater Red Light."

"So. Mongrel, you go with Cameron and clear out Camano Place."

"Uh, me mates call me Dingo," he quickly piped up.

"I know, but I can't say that with a straight face," the Boss replied as her mouth twisted into a smirk and she almost gave a laugh. Dingo shrugged.

"Righto…"

"Mongrel, Cameron, you take the streets of Camano; _any_ pimps you see, you take'em out. If the girls have nowhere to go, you bring them back here. Good old fashioned pimp hunting, real easy."

"Uhm, question?" Fatima quietly asked, a frown over her pierced face.

"What?"

"…Why kill'em?" She asked, genuinely curious, "Why not just make them cut us in?"

The Boss tilted her head, "The ones that _are_ cutting us in will be allowed to keep working."

"But the other guys, seems like a waste."

There was a short but icy quiet and the Boss leant forward, elbows on knees. She fixed her ice-blue eyes onto Fatima;

"…Are you suggesting I go chasing after these ass-wipes to ask them to make a business arrangement? After they waltzed in when one of my lieutenants was killed and started running business, _and_ trying to hide it from the gang who owns this town?" Everyone knew better than to answer a rhetorical question from her, and she continued, "This isn't about money. Besides, we're not killing the girls. Now, we've got word they have escort cars driving around which means these assholes are also stealing some big clients. Fatima, Cassius, track these things down and break up the party."

"Scuse me," Blake suddenly voiced.

"…Yeah?"

"Er, back in Stilwater I used to do some driving for TeeNay," he said, "I think I could work out a few places they might go."

The Boss seemed surprised, swapping a glance with Gat before nodding.

"Huh. Good… Alright, you go find those cars - tail them if you can, I wanna find the pimps actually running the girls. Cassius, you can go street side with Dingo-" she barely got the name out before snorting a laugh. Even Gat turned away to hide his laughing smirk, but Dingo himself just pouted.

"It's not that fuckin' funny mate," he grumbled and the Boss let slip another short snigger, a hand to her mouth to try and smother it.

"I know, I know…"

"Anyway," Gat said after clearing his throat and allowing the woman to compose herself, "You two take care of Camano Place, Tasha, Pitbull, you guys have Rosen Oaks. Airport area is paid up, and Espina… well that place is a fuckin' disaster zone so no one is really operating there."

"What about Noir?" Tasha asked. Gat smiled dangerously,

"What, you think we'd let you have all the fun on this one? I'm takin' care of Noir."

"We both are," the Boss added, smiling coolly at Gat, and he seemed to be holding back an annoyed glare when she did. After a tense pause, the woman looked around at the gathered Saints.

"Were we unclear on anything?"

"…No?"

"So why are you all still sitting here on your asses?"

They grabbed their guns and scrambled into action.

* * *

It didn't take long for Blake to track it down; a sleek black sedan with heavy tinted windows, creeping around the docks. He had to follow along in a little Halberd to stay inconspicuous. After a minute it pulled up out the front of a garage; a pot-bellied man in a suit got out of another car parked across the street, glancing about nervously as he trotted over to the sedan and climbed in the back. The car pulled away, picking up speed as it went down the street.

"There he goes…" Blake muttered, following the car along at a distance enough to remain unnoticed. They wound through suburban streets and along the edges of the island, the minutes starting to stretch… ten… fifteen… twenty…

After a lap of the airport the car slid up by an apartment block on the edge of Camano Place and the john got out, fixing his buttons and smoothing his hair as he did. Blake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited, seeing the car take off and turn down a side street; he followed on the street parallel. When he turned the corner onto Camano Place the sedan was pulled up by Leather and Lace; it was then impossible to miss the target.

The pimp was dressed in a lavish red fur that feathered the ground, his pants a bright, garish gold and under one bejewelled hand he leant on a thick gold and white cane. The girls had gotten out; one a blonde who was reapplying cherry-red lipstick, the other a petite thing who was straightening out a bubblegum pink wig. The pimp argued with her about something and was pointing at his phone, then abruptly smacked the back of his hand across her face-

A veil of red ran over Blake's vision, and it took every ounce of his self control to keep a level head; under his iron grip the steering wheel creaked as if it should break.

"Dammit," Blake growled as he drew the GDHC he'd been given; he was a useless shot, he knew it; in the Genki Game it had been Tasha who scored almost all their points. If the girls weren't so close by him he might have made an attempt; in this case he'd need to get closer.

Then the pimp got a phone call… he spoke a moment, then was startled and soon shoving the girls back into the sedan. Realising the man must have just gotten word of what was happening across New Colvin Blake crushed on the gas, racing up to the corner as the sedan was about to pull out-

Slamming the brakes on he braced as the sedan T-boned into the Halberd; not enough speed to cause any real damage, but the car was stopped. He swung his aim out of the car and saw the suited driver throw himself out, stumbling over the pavement in a panic to get away. Screaming, the women fell out of the back seat and fled to the other side of the street, crouching by a parked car.

Their pimp got out again, and Blake fired off a few shots; the garishly dressed man yelled out a curse and took cover behind his car, Blake's bullets hammering into the brick wall of the shop. He swore and clambered out the other side of the car while racing to reload, keeping low as a shotgun slug bounded off the metal cage.

_'Shotgun? He didn't have a shotgun-'_

Blake fired off another clip from around the back of the car, pulling back as the tail light was abruptly blown off-

"Damn, shit!" he heard the pimp saying and he peered around the side of the Halberd; the pimp was scrambling to reload his… _cane_. Blake saw then the thickness of the handle, that it was a weapon in disguise. But it was cumbersome, and the pimp dropped ammo in his panic, Blake rushing to reload-

It was far from an elegant or well executed shoot-out.

Seeing Blake beating him to reload the pimp gave up, turning and running, his red coat flying behind him like ludicrous plumage as he vanished around a corner.

"This could be going better," Blake mumbled, seeing the two women still crouched on the other side of the road, watching the exchange and waiting for a victor. He began to give chase, but soon the pimp reappeared from around the corner - and he was not alone. Four other brightly dressed men flanked him, closing in with baseball bats swinging, two of them cocking guns. Seeing he was radically out numbered, Blake made his split second decision. He turned on the two girls crouched on the sidewalk;

"Hey, back in the car, hurry!" he barked and they scrambled over the road, clambering back into the sedan as Blake got into the front, a bullet pinging off the hood of the car. Pulling the automatic into reverse and slamming his foot on the gas, the tyres screeched the car backwards, veering towards the pack of pimps who screamed and scattered.

Finding himself surprisingly centred, Blake pushed the gear into drive and they shot off down the road. Behind them were angry shouts, the sound of rocks and bottles hitting the car as the pimps were left behind in the rearview mirror.

There Blake concentrated on driving, taking a long detour through Espina to lose any possible tail. When he hit the streets there, he suddenly wished he hadn't;

The lurching carcass of the Daedalus was still in the bay, and the destruction of the massive wave it caused was still evident; smaller homes and sheds had been swept away and the debris wasn't cleaned up yet, just shoved into piles. It was a ghost town.

"Used to have a place around here," he heard one of the girls murmur from the back seat; but now certain no one was following them through the depressing wreckage of a suburb, he turned back up towards Safeword, the hotel standing tall and brilliant in the heart of the island; a few silent minutes later and the open iron gates welcomed them in.

Mongrel frowned as he killed the engine, glancing in the rear-view mirror at the two women huddled in the back. The smaller girl's pink wig was gone showing short cropped mousy hair, her thick black mascara running down her face. The other, the blonde, seemed impassive and had an arm slung over the girl's shoulders to comfort her. Clearly, she was used to this sort of snatch-and-grab situation. The thought made Blake frown and look away.

"I was told you could stay here, work here if you needed to," he told them.

"And what about Gold-D? He's gonna come back for us," the blonde said impassively. Blake let go of a heavy breath.

"Maybe. But he won't get far."

After a moment the girls slid over the seats and got out of the car, walking up the front steps of Safeword; Blake pulled the sedan into the lot.

* * *

"… He got away," Gat said flatly, cleaning his gun. The man had a flew splashes of blood over him, but it was clearly not his own. He levelled Blake a hard glare from across the bar. "Now he's gonna go underground and I'm gonna have to go and take care of that shit myself. Not that I'm complainin'; you boys've been having all the fun lately. "

Mongrel resisted the urge to shift his weight under the glare; the thought he'd come this far only to fail now bit at him, but he didn't let it show.

"Guess I didn't pass then." _Maybe it's for the best,_ he considered.

"You fucked the job," Gat agreed with a slow nod, then shrugged, setting down his gun and pulling two glasses out from the bar, then a bottle of whiskey, "Good news is, the job wasn't the test. You got those girls outta there safe, made _them_ the priority."

Blake blinked, frowning at Gat who'd started to smirk while he poured two generous drinks, sliding one over to him. Blake felt his jaw drop with a little indignation, "…That whole job was a setup?"

"Quick man. Don't get me wrong, I'da preferred it if you managed to smoke that pimp," Gat retorted, swallowing down his drink. Blake looked into his whiskey, giving it a short swirl and a tentative sip. It wasn't his particular favourite, but this went down smooth as silk.

"…How'd Chat Noir go?"

Gat grinned darkly, "You ever seen what happens to a man with a pipe bomb taped into his mouth?"

Sorry he'd asked, Blake changed the subject, "Where's the Boss?"

"Next level down. Dealing with Fats and Cass. Everyone else should be here s-"

As if summoned the elevator chimed, doors sliding open and a rather weary crew of Saints stepped out, Tasha surveying the room before taking her seat up at the bar, Pitbull slouching quietly to a nearby sofa, and Dingo twirling a new pimp cane he'd acquired through the night along with a garish pair of glasses.

"Whaddyou think?" he asked with a grin. Tasha rolled her eyes.

"You're _not_ rockin' it… Where's Cassius and Fatima?"

"Downstairs," Gat replied, refilling his glass already, "Fatima got shot. Don't look lethal though, she'll be aight."

"Damn," Tasha murmured and shook her head.

"Since you're all back here, I'm assumin' you got good news to report?"

"Four dead pimps, seven new girls working here," she replied hotly. Gat gave an appreciative nod.

"Not bad."

Behind them the elevator chimed again.

"So what about Cassius-?" Dingo pressed, and a voice behind them answered.

"He failed."

They turned to see the Boss slinking in, wiping her bloody hands on a damp towel. She blinked at their incredulous looks, then down at her hands.

"Fucking hell, it's not _his_ blood, relax." She rubbed more dried blood from her arms before dropping the towel on the bar, sitting herself up on a barstool.

"_Cass_ failed?" Dingo voiced thoughtfully. The Boss shrugged.

"His girls got shot in the cross fire. Which leaves us, with four." She indicated to each one of them, and in that moment they glanced to one another, realisation creeping up on them.

"So, we're it?" Blake asked; the Boss only nodded.

"Alright, I'm sure your curiosity has been eatin' you alive long enough," Gat announced, "You'll wanna know what it is we want from you."

"Yeah, break it down for us," Dingo said, suddenly eager, "Are we taking another city, or… is this us going up against the government?"

"…Not exactly," the Boss said as Gat poured her a glass of water, "As you're aware, the city's kinda in the shithouse right now, the crew has a lot on their plates and we're not entirely sure where everything is going just yet."

They nodded, but it was Pitbull who finally spoke up, "Scuse me…? I figured you guys would know this, but is Steelport really gonna become a micro nation? Y'know, secede from the US?"

"…It's being considered. Mayor Reynolds and his advisors are staying on top of the political side of things."

"Oi you should do it, like that Hutt River guy," Dingo chuckled, "Make your own mini-kingdom, it'd be the shit."

"The term Kingdom is a little archaic…"

"I thought we lived in an autonomous collective?"

"Yo I think we're getting off topic," Gat interrupted, snapping their attention back. "Alright. Long story short, you four are now acting bodyguards. And I mean lay down your fuckin' life, take a bullet, bodyguards."

There was a long silence, before Tasha pulled a face; "…For _who_?"

"…Me." The Boss' lips pursed as she looked down into her drink, then up at the crew. They blinked - another silence.

"Hah, yeah, righto…" Dingo laughed, but his smile faded when he met the Bosses deadpan eyes. He swallowed, "Wait… you're deadset aye?"

"If by that you mean serious, then yes. One year, five grand a week, that's what, a quarter million each, total? You'll be given your weaponry and cars, too, bullet proof vests, fire resistant clothing and working on a rotating roster so there's at least two of you present at all times."

"…Is there someone out to get you?" Tasha asked, and at the both the Boss and Gat chuckled.

"When isn't there?" she said dryly, "No _serious_ threats on my life right now but considering the situation, this is a necessary precaution. Now, I'm currently about two months pregnant, which means in one or two months I'll start sh-"

"Whoah whoa _whoa! _The _hell_ you say?"

"I'm currently two months pregnant which _means-_" she held up her hand when it seemed they would interrupt her again, "In a month or two I'll start showing, and before you know it I'll be walking around with a watermelon sized growth on me. Needless to say, my ability to defend myself will be… compromised. Also why we demanded total secrecy, so if any of you talk, believe me, I will go _Titus Andronicus_ on your ass. As far as anyone is concerned, you are now just the new crew for some of the Saints higher-ups."

They stared at her, jaws dropped, speechless. Pitbull and Blake seemed a little relieved, Tasha a little angry. But Dingo… his vibrant aura vanished, and when he spoke there was a weakening in his words:

"So… are you seriously pregnant?" he murmured, to which she ground her teeth and gave him a flat glare.

"No. This is a TV show, you've all been Punk'd, _yes_ I'm having a god-damn baby." She almost pouted at Gat then, "Why does no one believe me when I say that?"

Letting her head drop, Tasha quickly drew the sign of the cross over herself, then muttered quietly under her breath-

"Lord help that child…"

* * *

None of them stayed long after that; the first schedule was sorted, and they were to report to the main HQ the next day to be outfitted, then the watch would start. Mongrel stepped out into the cold night air with Tasha, both of them seeming a little dumbfounded after that night.

"I'll have to quit Vesuvius… maybe even drop by tonight before they close up," Mongrel muttered, to her or himself, it was unclear.

"What are you gonna tell Dice?" she asked.

"I… as much as I can? New crew for some of the Saints higher-ups. Security detail or… This isn't gonna be easy."

"Shouldn't be that hard to keep her in the dark," she said with a derisive snort. Blake narrowed his eyes at her.

"She's a lot smarter than you think, Tasha."

There was a quiet as they began walking to their cars, and soon Tasha shook her head.

"…Still can't believe it. We went through all that _to be bodyguards,_" She muttered hoarsely as if uncertain if she should be outraged. Blake stayed quiet, finding he actually felt somewhat alleviated; follow the Boss around, keep her out of trouble… it sounded much easier than everything he'd had in mind.

The Boss was _pregnant_… the whole idea seemed totally alien. Blake hadn't known much about their leader other from the little he'd seen, rumours he'd heard and praise Dice had given her. And while he had to respect the woman as a protective and determined leader, he had never been able to _like_ her. She was a gang leader, after all; at the end of the day, she earned all the power she had by destroying innocent lives.

And now she was going to be a mother. Not just the matron of the Saints, an actual _mother_. The concept somehow made her seem almost human.

"Tash," Mongrel said after a short moment, "If it was Maggie I'd want the best people in the Saints watching her too."


	6. The Modern Prometheus

The Modern Prometheus

Thin rivers of rain gently rolled down the windows of Tits n' Grits, giving an aura of warmth inside; with the breakfast rush over the small diner was at last slowing down, waitresses in pushup bras finally with a chance to clear and wipe the tables before a good half of them finished up for the day. It was an aspirational place; a guitar on the wall and black and white checkered floor tried to establish a fifties rockabilly theme. If it worked or not didn't seem to matter; their customers were there for the greasy hash browns and bacon, not the atmosphere.

Or, like the ageing woman in a booth by the window, they were there because their usual eatery had been destroyed by the Daedalus weeks ago.

She might have been in her fifties, her greying hair pulled up into a bun fastened with a single pencil and her white blouse neatly pressed. A set of stylish glasses sat perched on her nose, covering her soft brown eyes as she stared patiently into her tea cup. Every time the bell over the door chimed she'd glance up sharply, only to frown a little more and sigh, or peer irritably at the clock - it was ten minutes of this before she finally laid eyes on who she was waiting for.

A man in his mid-forties walked through the door, scanning the room and smiling broadly when he caught her eye. His dark hair had a spray of silver over his temples, his skin tone and features distinctly Parisian. But in all, he was rather unassuming; a hint on the short side, with a perfectly average build. He crossed the short distance to where the woman waited, as she stood to greet him.

"Maximillion," she greeted with a soft smile; he shook her hand and kissed her cheek fondly.

"Nanette," He greeted, indicating for her to sit first, before he slid into the seat opposite her, hands folded neatly on the table and smiling at his old friend. They naturally fell into their native French, hiding their conversation from anyone who cared to listen:

_"You're a little late,"_ Nanette chided.

_"I do apologise,"_ Max replied, _"Traffic in this city is disastrous at the moment. Have you ordered?"_

_"Just the tea while I waited, I wasn't sure what you wanted."_

Max nodded, gesturing to a waitress who bustled over, handing them plastic menus. Max ordered an _espresso_, Nanette stared blankly at the menu without giving it any real thought. Once the waitress left, Max reached over and lowered Nanette's menu, putting a hand on hers.

_"You look tired, my friend,"_ he said and Nanette sighed.

_"It has been a trying few months… I hear you are working for Boehringer now?"_

_"Yes, here and there."_ Max gave a shot chuckle, _"It is the most tedious and dissatisfying thing I have done since university."_

The waitress returned with his coffee, Max staring at it dubiously when it was set down before him so soon. Nanette tried to hold back her laughing smile.

"This is not _espresso_," Max muttered in English, but still not quite loud enough to bother the waitress. He examined the large white cup then took a sip, his face cringing. "Sacrilege. How does anyone drink this?"

"Their tea is not so offensive," Nanette said lightly, sipping at her cup as if to make her point. After a beat she set the porcelain down again, blinking across the table and slipping back into French.

_"Max, you are not just here to drink burned coffee with me."_

He nodded, glad to be getting to the point so soon. _"That I'm not. I have a business proposition for you. I'm not ready to give up on this project."_

Nanette's mouth pursed and she looked out the window, _"Loren is dead, his Syndicate is gone; the project is as good as lost."_

_"Not so Nanette!"_ Max quickly pressed,_ "Separately, we have only scratched the surface of our discoveries. And you remember how we used to work together, it was ridiculous for Loren to split us up."_

_"I don't know what you mean to accomplish…" _She actually smiled, though it was brief as a hint of pain slashed across her face. Shaking her head she drained the last of her tea,_ "I feel I have been working my entire life, and now nothing to show for it."_

_"You have plenty to show; you have accomplished so much and what's more, you are still not done, neither am I. We work better together, you know this! Think of what we could accomplish." _He leant in, becoming quiet, intense,_"Listen, we start our own company. From the patent on the stasis pods alone, we could make enough money to fund whatever research we wanted. That toxin on Arapice Island is just the beginning. And you… you made _life_ Nanette. You gave subjects One and Two life and you could do it again."_

But Nanette suddenly blanched and leant back, eyes cast down_. "Do not speak of them, please… Subject One is gone."_

_"What?" _Max asked incredulously; Nanette's grip on her cup became hard, her voice, soft;

_"He was destroyed. That… that _she-devil_ Saint stole him and then burned him. And I cannot even think how she brought him under her influence."_

He hadn't been expecting news as bad as that, and the man took stock for a moment. Slowly he stirred a sugar packet into his coffee though didn't drink; it was a while before he spoke; _"…Carlos Mendoza was a member of the Saints. It stands to reason he would be linked to their leader."_

_"That is the why, not the how!"_ Nanette suddenly snapped,_ "And he was not hers to take. But now he's gone, where does that leave our years of research? He was the _source _of that toxin, and we still have no idea how he worked, what made him what he was. They destroyed it all. Everything I'd taken from Belgium and brought here and they blew it all up. I have… some files left in my personal equipment. And I know your research was seized or destroyed by those STAG people."_

By now, she seemed to be running out of steam, falling again into a familiar sense of hopelessness. Her lips pursed, and she looked to her old friend tiredly. _"Max, I do not know what to do anymore."_

A long silence passed. A waitress stopped by to take their orders but Max waved her on, allowing her to top up his coffee though he had no intention of finishing it. He'd had not expected Nanette to feel so hopeless, or be so torn down; he knew what dire straights they were in, but still had his hope. No… in losing the Mendoza specimen and Gat, it was clear Nanette had lost something more than just her experiments. He squeezed her hand, waiting till she looked him in the eye.

_"What do you _want_, Nanny?"_ He asked gently. Nanette quirked an eyebrow, smirking and shaking her head.

_"I want the Saint bitch dead."_ After a moment, she seemed to seriously consider his question and gave an answer less facetious;_ "I want to know how she did it… how she is involved in this. I want to see Subject Two again, Johnny. I think, if he knew what part I played in saving him he might… I don't know."_

_"I don't know if you could kill her without alienating him." _For a moment they both shared wry smiles.

_"And what do _you_ want, Max?"_

At this, Max lifted his chin a little; his eyes were distant while he chose his words.

_"A legacy," _he decided,_ "I want to be remembered. You ask anyone, who made that bio weapon dropped on Arapice Island, they say, 'STAG' or, 'The Saints'. If my great achievements are to live on in infamy, I want the world to at least know who did it. That Maximillion Dubois did the impossible."_

Nanette's smile widened affectionately, _"They will think you evil."_

_"Let them. Knowledge is knowledge; it should be free from morality. Archaic concepts of right and wrong have held back this world long enough."_

_"You're mad," _Nanette said, but it was with amusement and teasing. Max gave her a brief, but clear grin.

_"No. Ambitious."_ He then leant forward, eyes alight,_ "Which is why I need you. And it doesn't matter if you say your research is all gone, or that Subject One is gone. Because I know all that knowledge is locked away in here." _He reached over and gently touched her temple, _"You did what I couldn't, Nanette. Don't let the loss of Subject One be in vain."_

He let his hand fall away; the woman seemed moved by the impassioned speech, fingers coming to her chin pensively.

_"One thing I am still not sure about…" _she ventured_, "What are you trying to achieve? Not just legacy, I mean, the experiment itself."_

Max blinked, his smiled becoming a touch dangerous when they finally hit on what he was waiting for, _"Why, Nanette, I've already found a way to reanimate dead flesh, with a toxin that can even turn the living into mindless zombies. And _you_ managed to bring Mendoza's zombie under your control, for a while. And used knowledge gained from the preservations of his DNA to save Gat's life. That man should be a cripple."_

Nanette stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. Her lips parted with astonishment as her mind followed the connections he'd already made, a spark of life coming back to her.

_"…We really could find a way to bring all the zombies under our control… and since the formula can be manipulated to service the living, it's possible we might-"_

_"-Be able to control them too,"_ Max finished. Nanette was smiling now as possibilities expanded before her.

_"…A collective conscience…"_

_"That _we_ control," _He added,_ "It could take years, but we're already so close to controlling the corpses, we could find a way to infect the living, bring them into a state of half-life perhaps-"_

_"-It would be the greatest weapon ever created. Could you imagine? Every being, could fall into the one army once infected… cheating death with undeath… It would be the end of all wars."_

_"Does this mean I have you on board?"_ Max asked, grabbing her hands tightly. Nanette chewed her lip; it sounded bizarre, insane, implausible, and though they knew how the toxin worked they couldn't be certain as to why. But she'd seen evidence that it was possible…

_"…We'll need the Saints leader,"_ She decided,_ "There is something about her, her connection to Subject One. She must know something about his origin. When he fed from her he came under her control."_

_"Is it that we need her, or that you want her dead?"_

_"A little from column A, a little from column B." _Nanette smirked and Max gave a real chuckle, rubbing his chin in thought.

_"…She'd be impossible to get to."_ He said. Nanette tutted gently.

_"Max. We've accomplished what Mary Shelly wrote as mere fiction. Nothing is impossible."_


	7. Lady Liberty

**And now, ladies and gentlemen, the first ****_ever_**** chapter of the entire series to be published... ****_from the USA!_**

**If you were wondering where I've been lately life has been a little hectic for obvious reasons, but lo, here I am in Dallas, Texas! This country has so many fast food joints, it's quite impressive... **

**So thank you all for your patience while I dealt with travel and my amazing inability to recover from jet lag. This chapter is quite dialogue heavy and in writing it I became aware this whole story will probably not have as much whacked-out action sequences as previous ****instalments... quality over quantity? Eh-heh...?**

* * *

Lady Liberty

And now their watch begins…

Having the new 'crew' tailing me night and day wasn't my idea; when Johnny had told me about what he wanted to do I was downright insulted. I shouted at him for a bit, then suddenly was miserable and nearly in tears, then decided he was the most awesome guy on earth for putting up with me, _then_ shoved him into bed for the better part of an hour. After that maelstrom of raging hormones finally reconciled, reason managed to make a break through. Currently, I was a nauseous, temperamental time bomb and in a few months _won't_ be physically capable of doing too well in shootouts and… well. Pretty much _any_ of my regular activities.

For the past two weeks my new bodyguards mostly stayed out of my hair as they shadowed me through the day, but it didn't stop the niggling in my shoulders, that feeling you get when you know you're being watched, even with a friendly eye. They were a good crew though… Tasha I had a feeling from the start would make it and I'm glad she did; I'd watched her career from the beginning. I don't trust easily, but of all four, she was the one I had the most faith in.

Dingo and Pitbull I hadn't bet on, at least at the start. Funny how they always seemed coupled together in my mind, maybe that was how I evened them out. Dingo, who seemed like a bit of a jackass at times was the polar opposite of Pitbull. How those two ever became friends is beyond me; as far as I knew they were lumped together years ago to guard one of the garages back in Stilwater. Still, they'd proved themselves and neither one seemed _too_ smart, which has its uses. If you need to trust someone it pays to be able to manipulate them.

Mongrel… I was the one who told Johnny to go after Mongrel. No one thought he could be trusted after he'd left, and I know he has no loyalty to me. But he had something else; there was an element in his character that could be exploited, a rare streak of morality and protective instincts. Would he ever put his own life in jeopardy to save _me?_ No. But, for the innocent life I was carrying inside of me… willing or not he'd do anything to keep that safe.

So there they were.

Then there were the last few of my lieutenants to tell about the situation (urgh… I get sick of making that announcement). Angel was concerned and admittedly a little puzzled as to why I'd do something like that to my body, but ultimately wished me luck in the endeavour and told me he could help with an intensive training strategy 'once it was over with'.

Kinzie had said something along the lines of "Ew." Which soon launched us into a discussion about the future of population control, cloning, and designer humans being grown in test tubes. The closest she came to an encouraging comment was that the infant would, in likelihood, be genetically superior having a mixed-race heritage.

Oleg, though… Oleg's reaction was… startling.

There he was, all seven feet of him, looking back and forth between Gat and me with slowly blossoming delight, then clamped his huge hands on our shoulders-

"Congratulations! When is wedding?"

Cue the stunned silence.

"…You are being married soon, da? You are _not_ having bastard child?"

Try telling _him_ that one terrifying, life-changing event at a time was enough for that year… later Gat and I had laughed awkwardly about it, but not _talked_ about it beyond admitting neither of us were the marrying type.

Viola was the last I was up for telling. Shaundi and I were catching up with her for lunch - she'd picked out one of those trendy, artsy cafes that had a lot of vegan stuff on the menu and despite us being a few weeks into fall she still wanted to sit outside in the deserted courtyard. Like I've said, Viola was a closeted outdoors person.

That day I had Tasha and Dingo sitting at another table in the leafy courtyard where they had a good vantage point. Well, where Tasha did. Looked like she only ordered a juice whereas Dingo was examining the menu as if it was written in a foreign language and making jokes about vegetarians that she wasn't laughing at.

We talked mostly business till our meals arrived; almost all the refugees had moved out of Safeword so income was on the up again, no word of new pimps in the area, Espina was still a dead zone. Once we'd started eating I decided to get on with it;

"So, there was something else I needed to tell you today-"

"That you're pregnant?" She said abruptly and with utter boredom, cutting into her omelette. I blinked with surprise;

"Who told you?"

She nearly rolled her eyes, then began counting off on her fingers, "Vomiting, mood swings, new security detail, bigger boobs, bigger ass, not drinking… not to mention you ordered halloumi bruchetta with mustard pickles instead of tomato."

"Hey, halloumi is the _business_. It's like bacon and chicken fucked and had a baby made out of cheese…"

"…But it _is_ true?"

I shrugged, biting ravenously into my strange meal, "Yeah."

"Well. That was stupid of you," Viola decided, "I say that because it can't possibly have been intentional."

"It wasn't. At least it'll be winter most of the time. I can hide under overcoats." I felt a flicker of anger, but luckily my mood was on a down-swing.

"Well, you're being smart at least to get some extra security," Viola added, "Although your choice in personnel is… Look, Natasha and Pitbull I understand, but why the other two? I was told 'Mongrel' actually left the Saints and… as for that Australian? How'd he even get in in the first place?"

"Dingo's been in the Saints for a few years now. I know he comes off as a bit of an idiot, but they guy is actually pretty hard."

"I really don't see it."

"No, he's crazy," Shaundi joined lowly. Plucking at her salad she glanced past Viola to where Dingo sat, trying to get Tasha to eat a strip of bacon. Viola visibly lent in, her curiosity caught and Shaundi continued:

"Okay, back in Stilwater when we were trying to track down the leader of the Samedi, the Boss got a hold of this kid and got him to talk. He mentioned Loa labs above some sex shops, so I sent a few of my guys to go clear it out." She leant in, speaking a little lower, "Well, the story is they showed up there and the place was already deserted, save a couple of dead guys in the first room. When they got upstairs there was an explosion when one of the labs blew up, the place started filling with smoke, right? Thing is, most of the Samedi were _already dead_. They found _him_-" she nodded to Dingo, "-crouched down over the top of one and stabbing him, like, fifty times in the chest."

"I doubt it was fifty," I added, "Most people run out of steam after eleven."

"The point is, that guy took out a Loa den on his own, then walked out of there like it was no thing. We pretty much recruited him on the spot, he was canonised a few days later."

"That sounds like urban myth. The whole thing has been exaggerated," Viola said drolly, and I raised an eyebrow at her.

"We've seen crazier shit than that," I said, "Besides, it's what I heard too. He was probably fucked up as all hell at the time. He has track marks on his arms. Old ones but they're there. Besides, he's proven his worth since and I like his accent."

"He was big in the drug scene for a bit but we never really hung out or anything," Shaundi added as she stabbed at her salad, "I don't think he likes talking about that day."

"Well. He was either tripping balls, or he had a vendetta against them."

Viola politely chewed and swallowed before talking, "So who else knows?"

"Pierce, Oleg, Kinzie, Angel."

She nodded, not in the least bit offended she was the last on that list, "Not Birk?"

"No, and I'd like to put that one off…" A thought crossing my mind I looked to Shaundi, "What's the deal with you two anyway?"

She gave an audible sigh, "He's an idiot. Nothing's going on."

I only nodded, finishing off my meal. Serves me right, Shaundi wouldn't get into that stuff in front of Viola anyway. Checking my phone for the time I groaned, lazily throwing a few notes onto the table and getting up.

Viola dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Got that meeting?"

"I dunno if I should even go."

"You shouldn't," Shaundi growled as she stood, zipping up her jacket, "You're a gang leader, not some asshole in the Chamber of Commerce."

"Working with the Mayor has always been a benefit. You'd be stupid _not_ to go," Viola retorted, then added after a moment's consideration, "Which is also why I'm going with you."

I raised an eyebrow, "Good. You can handle the boring shit."

* * *

Burt's office had been destroyed in the attack on Downtown; if he needed one more reason to hate Senator Hughes, he got it.

The new office was now located in what _used_ to be the STAG headquarters (unsurprisingly untouched) that he'd kicked the former militants out of. They had no reason to object.

Still, Monica Hughes wasn't going to go away so quietly, even after my declaration on national TV that she and her goons weren't welcome in this city anymore. As it is hard to justify green lighting the destruction of half an island, she was being surprisingly cooperative to try and save face. As far as I can tell Cyrus was now the scapegoat of the whole situation.

I knew better.

"I don't see why we have to be at this meeting, it's political bullshit," Shaundi vehemently shot as we rode the elevator up to the top level of the building. I couldn't help but notice the new wallpaper; I suppose some blood and bullet holes were hard to get rid of.

"Hey, you don't have to be here if you don't want," I said with a weary (and somewhat envious) sigh. "It was Burt who asked me anyway. Besides, I needed to get out for something other than walking the cat."

"It's not as tedious as you would think. You just need to know how to work them," Viola said in that monotone, empty way of hers. I'd never seen her impassioned about anything before; even avenging her sister. It was hard to tell if she was very good at hiding her emotions or just… boring.

The elevator doors slid open and we were greeted, strangely, with the summer scent of cigarette smoke. As I rounded the corner, flanked first by Viola and Shaundi then Tasha and Dingo, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Even from behind I knew him right away. Navy police suite, sandy blond hair… Then he glanced over his shoulder hearing us. I raised my eyebrows; he'd changed a little… moustache was thicker, one or two more crows feet about the eyes, the first spray of silver on his temples.

"…Troy?"

I felt Shaundi pause next to me; if she'd ever met Troy it must have been fleeting. Viola was impassive, as ever.

"Well…" He greeted, turning fully and regarding me a long moment, "I wasn't sure if Burt was serious when he said you'd be coming."

"What are you doing here?" I broached quietly. He shrugged a little.

"Stilwater's the sister city; since the Mayor couldn't be here, and when he heard _you_ might be turning up… well. I seemed an obvious choice." He put a cigarette between his lips and struck up a flame from his lighter, puffing for a moment, "Just an observer, mind you."

"You're not supposed to be smoking in here," Shaundi snapped which caused everyone a little surprise. A beat later and he slowly drew out his cigarette case, stubbing the embers out against it and sheathing the cancer-stick back in the case.

"_That_, coming from _you?_" he asked. Shaundi only folded her arms. _Ah yes… I wasn't to be smoking, or breathing it in, was I?_

"Surprised Gat isn't with you." He commented as we all finally continued down the hall.

"Yeah, 'cos when I told him I was having a board meeting he just _jumped_ at the chance to be there. Till he realised that for the moment I have no intention of putting a bullet in that bitch's head…"

Troy only shook his head, a flash of a smile about his face. I could only guess at what he was thinking of.

I'd thought this little meeting was going to take place in Burt's office; when I saw we were actually going to a _fucking_ board room I had to indulge myself with a little fantasy of blowing the place up.

_How the hell did I ever get here…?_

One wall was nothing but glass, overlooking the ruined city as if to poignantly remind Monica Hughes of what a psycho Cyrus had been. A long table dominated the dull room, glasses, water jugs… and there at the head of it sat Monica Hughes herself, flanked either side by suited goons in sunglasses. Burt sat to her left, and I saw Troy with a small sigh go to sit to her right. There was a smirk about that woman's mouth… and something else that just seemed disgusted when she looked at me.

"Really…" she said drolly when we entered, "So glad you could find time between blowing up buildings and selling soda to make it."

"So glad you weren't too ashamed to set foot in a city you tried to level," I replied coolly. Her lips pursed.

"…Cyrus Temple went rogue; we're implementing new psychological scanning processes to-"

I geld up a hand, "I'm gonna stop you right there. Remember lady, I know what lengths you'll go to even if it's just to make a point. And how _very_ good you are at defecting the blame - do the words 'Ultor' and 'septic tank' ring any bells?"

"…I don't know why you would think I had anything to do with that disgusting rampage."

"Ladies, if we could take our seats?" Burt offered, indicating to a few of the seats by him, at the low end of the table.

After a pause, I slowly went to one of the chairs, pulled it back and rolled it to the other end, the other head of the table, far across from Monica Hughes. I hid my pleasant surprise when Tasha stepped forward and poured me a glass of water. _Nice touch, friend._

Viola turned to hide her smile, and she and Shaundi took their seats by my end. After my display Burt relaxed back into his chair and began;

"We are here to discuss the future of this city-"

"A meeting that is not to be made public," Monica interrupted, "And would have all present agree by the signing of these contracts."

I exchanged a look with Troy who subtly rolled his eyes as the papers were passed around to us all, including Mongrel and Dingo. I loosely scanned the contract, then feeling rather antagonistic signed _Stalky McThundercunt_ and let the paper be gathered with the rest.

"Right…" Burt grumbled, "Now, that's settled, I think we can actually begin."

"Let it be known, I see _her_ presence here as an act of aggression-" Monica _had _to say and I glared.

"Whereas I find your presence just a bit confusing. See, I thought I was pretty clear, you and your STAG monkeys aren't welcome in this city anymore."

"You're a thug and a criminal; this might come as a shock, but you have _no_ say in what happens here today."

"Now, Senator, I understand you had the welfare of my citizens in mind when you brought those STAG fellers here," Burt drawled calmly, "But that don't change what's happened; STAG was a bigger disaster for this city than the gangs ever were. We're taking the steps necessary so that we can govern ourselves; for the good of the citizens and it's what _they_ want. We're not livin' in a police state."

"Mayor Reynolds, I can't in good conscience allow that to happen, you know that, it would be disastrous for the economy of Steelport. The incidences with STAG-"

"Incidences?" I blurted, "You levelled half a fucking city. I wouldn't call that an _incident_."

Monica neatly folded her hands, "Cyrus Temple was responsible for the Daedalus disaster; he's fled the country, and been blacklisted as a traitor."

"I _know_."

"But STAG's presence before that was _needed_ to protect the people from _you_, to eradicate the criminal presence and save the city."

"Well there's your problem…" Troy said quietly, his fingers twirling in the absence of a cigarette, "Senator, take it from someone who's been there and done that. Assassinating her? Gat? Any of her crew? Not going to make a damn difference. All it does is make room for other gangs to take over. Now I'm not saying sit back and do nothing 'cos God knows Stilwater's bled, but your _solution?_ You are one naive woman to have thought executing them all would solve gangland warfare and criminal violence. You can't impose a police state on these people."

She bristled; "I was acting on the best information and advice I was given. When there are rats nesting in your walls you don't negotiate with them, you _gas_ them."

"Uh, right here?" Shaundi said with a wave of her hand.

"And you shouldn't be," Hughes snarled back, "We are here to discuss a prosperous future for this city and _you_ are nothing but leeches, a danger to everything that was built here. Now it's clear you have some sort of arrangement with Mayor Reynolds which only furthers my argument that this city cannot be allowed to become autonomous. You keep saying that the Saints 'own' Steelport, and that Stilwater is yours. But just because you oversee all the crime that goes on and you treat the streets like your own personal Genki Bowl, doesn't mean you own this place. It doesn't make you Queen. You're nothing but the scum that needs to be scraped away!"

A thick silence fell; I felt a tranquil sort of darkness settle on me, and I regarded the woman sitting far across from me.

"…Guys, could you excuse us for a moment?" I asked to the other four; at their collective puzzled looks, frowns and protests I just held up my hands, "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill her. She can even keep the blues brothers with her."

After exchanging glances, they nodded, standing and leaving the room. To her credit, if Senator Hughes was scared she didn't show it. The door closed behind us, leaving me, Monica, and our respective bodyguards.

I leaned back in my chair, legs crossed and pensively tapped an index finger on the glass of water under my hand, once, twice. When I spoke, my voice was calm, cool. I felt strangely outside of myself.

"…Did you know I know how to make meth? I'm not very good at it, but I know the process. I can make explosives, loa dust, grow weed, pimp whores. I've orchestrated smuggling networks, ran drugs, taken out hits on people, hijacked cars, run one of the largest protection rackets in the country. Dabbled in piracy too - _literal_ piracy, like taking over an actual ship. And yeah, I did a lot of it with violence. And the reason I can do all these things, isn't _just_ because I started out at the bottom, mugging people on the streets and slowly working my way up the food chain. I can do these things because, if I'm a leader, I _need_ to be able to do anything my crew does, even if _I_ don't run the brothels. Or chop shops, or drug labs."

I slowly reached out and sipped at my water, savouring the moment, slowly settling it back down, and continued, netting my fingers;

"…I run an _empire. _By this point, nearly half, _half_ of all legitimate businesses in Stilwater are owned or invested in by me, or my lieutenants, or one of the Saints who has more hard cash than they can spend. We own _all_ of Steelport's criminal activity and a sizeable piece of its legitimate business. We own the building that you _live in_. We own the club that you visit after work. We own the people who work there. When you go to get your car fixed, we imported those parts. When you go to get your morning coffee, or your hair done, all those businesses that were circling the drain, all those neighbourhoods that were rotting are now growing because of the money _I'm_ laundering through them. The very crime that was tearing them apart is now the only thing holding them together. You think that because Planet Saints has been pulled down and we've dropped our corporate image that we're gone…? The Saints are everywhere. We are the blood in the veins of these islands. So when I tell you, that I _own_ Steelport… you had better. _Fucking. Believe it._"

The air was thick with silence. Monica had barley moved, but I could see her breathing was a touch quicker, her jaw tighter.

"Steelport and Stilwater are autonomous now," I reminded her, "It's inevitable. The question is how _you_ handle this transition, Senator, because it could very well effect your Presidential bid… How are you going to save face after Cyrus Temple?"

"By letting some, some criminal _psychopath_ take control of these already floundering cities? By abandoning those islands to your tyranny?" She finally hissed, her rage boiling over. I snorted a laugh.

"Hello Pot? This is Kettle, just calling to say you're black - Oh really? Well Kettle I'm just calling to say I fucked your wife."

"You're not even taking the situation seriously-"

"I am. This is my home we're talking about, I am taking this situation _very_ fucking seriously. _You're_ the joke here, Monica. You're as fucked in the head as that lard-ass husband of yours was."

She spread her palms flat on the table, glaring daggers at me; "You're forgetting one very important thing, you are a _criminal-_"

"And you're a terrorist. I don't deny what I am or what I've done, but _you?_"

"-And I can make this a national case if I have to! I will make you public enemy number one and I'd like to see how you stand against the entire US military."

I paused; I should have been expecting that one.

"…Good luck with that. You know the people see me as the hero in this situation; you've got way too much damage control to do before you try and make another move on me. Cyrus Temple is your real problem here."

"…But you were worried, just now, about the US military, weren't you?" her voice was quiet, "And you do realise, should you want to make these islands city-states, I can make existence very, very difficult for you."

"And I can make your Presidential bid next to impossible." I wasn't sure if that was true, but I sure know we could come up with something to tear that woman down and dump all over her career. We stared each other down, and there was a real moment where I thought of pulling a Gat and just icing her. I could see the cogs working away in her mind, shrewd woman. Eventually she steepled her fingers delicately under her chin.

"…We're approaching this the wrong way," she finally decided, "You _have_ worked for me in the past, after all. Granted when I said devalue property I was thinking of graffiti and general vandalism, not spraying buildings with faeces."

"Oh, you remember that arrangement now?"

"…The problem I have here is that I cannot, in good conscience, hand over a city to a renown sociopathic criminal. And, Cyrus temple needs to be dealt with…"

_That's it, you old hag, offer it to me…_

"You no doubt have your own reasons for wanting Cyrus Temple dead. I think we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. I may be willing to allow Steelport to run autonomously from the State-"

"-And Stilwater. It's a package deal."

She paused at that, then cleared her throat with a subtle nod, "When we track down Temple, how would you feel about the job falling to _you_ to kill him?"

I managed to hold back my dark smile, "Ordinarily I'd say 'with pleasure'. But you said he's fled to the Middle East?"

"Did I? Hn… Well. He needs to be taken care of. And while we are attempting to find him, the political situation is… delicate. If you, and your Saints were willing to do the deed, there may be amnesty in it for you."

"And if we die over there or get caught, the US government is under no obligation to come for us, because it's a personal vendetta and not a political manoeuvre?" I said dryly.

"Astute. But, you're the vengeful type, aren't you?" She gave me a saccharine smile that made me want to vomit for the third time that day. "Let's try working _together_, hm? You do this for me, for _America_, and you will truly be a hero; we could pardon you, your friends. There would be no scandal in allowing the Islands to operate as city-states."

She was speaking to me like a child, which admittedly was quite insulting. But that was the attitude I needed from her.

"Sounds like I don't really have a choice," I sighed, trying to squeeze defeat into my tone. "Okay. You let the Steelport-Stilwater Islands operate as city-states - _starting now_ - and we'll help you avoid an international incident when you find Cyrus."

Monica smiled; an unpleasant sight. "Keep in mind, it took ten years to locate Bin Laden," she chuckled, "But it was done. What's say we let the gentlemen back in?"

I nodded mutely, trying not to smirk.

We'd been searching for Cyrus. _Of course_ we had. And we had every intention of killing him ourselves; and now, thanks to Monica Hughes' hubris, we could be getting a lot more out of it than just revenge.


	8. Cars and Crackheads

**Thank you again, everyone, for the encouraging reviews. I'm a little surprised at how dialogue heavy this is turning out... even I'm starting to crave a little madness. ****A fair warning; the next chapter ****_is_**** coming to me much more easily, but I can't guarantee a swift update, since (drumroll please)...**

**I'm getting married this Saturday!**

**So now you all know why I've had so much of my time chewed up lately; overseas wedding planning. ****That being said, hope you all enjoy the chapter! :)**

* * *

Cars and Crackheads

_The Barrio, Stilwater, three years previously…_

The old neon sign above flickered and buzzed as it turned on, cold blue lighting the front of the garage. The sun had only just set on the Southern Cross Rim Jobs and Pitbull was already there, taking over the guard shift from Kit and Xander. He was supposed to have some new kid watching with him tonight; whoever it was, they were already late.

So, alone out the front he dragged back on a paper-bagged beer, keeping an eye on the roads and generally looking intimidating. At one point he walked the perimeter of the place, only to take up his post again. A car came in for work; he checked the person out, the car, and waved them in.

It was almost dark when he spotted someone walking up, a young man wearing baggy jeans and a worn white singlet shirt. The purple bandana around his arm told Pitbull this guy was a Saint, and by the looks of it the other guard for tonight.

He was a wiry, tattooed sort, with a rich, dark tan and long, shaggy dreadlocks. Pitbull knew it in less than a second; the new kid was high. How he'd stretch his mouth, his eyes were a little wide and unblinking. He'd fidget, sniff, his jaw would twitch.

Pitbull shook his head slightly, looking away and back out to the road; perhaps guarding the garage was all this junkie was good for. Not that it was necessary; Pitbull knew he was intimidating enough without needing any extra help.

No, they were keeping this new kid out of trouble. Which meant tonight, he was babysitting this crack-head.

The skinny-guy nodded when he recognised the purple flags Pitbull wore, and he cracked what looked like a characteristic grin.

"Hey. Howsit goin'? Sorry I'm late, y'know, traffic." He held out his hand to Pitbull, "Cameron. Me mates call me Dingo, y'know, cos of the accent and shit."

Pitbull regarded Dingo a moment, then finally reached out and gave him a brief street shake.

"They call me Pitbull."

"Who, ya mates or ya mum? Heh…" Dingo joked, constantly edging his weight around. He moved to stand by Pitbull, mimicking him by looking out to the street and folding his arms. "I like this place. Only done the watch once before, you weren't there… obviously, I mean, there was a different guy. Seriously is it just Pitbull or…?"

Pitbull observed his new workmate with a sideward glance, "…Antierre. I don't like goin' by that though."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah fair'nuff. Y'know uh, if anyone calls me Cameron I'm either in trouble or getting laid, hah." Silence. Dingo pressed on, "It's a nice place they got, here. Got me car fixed here, they do good work. Didn't know who it belonged to then though. Heh. And here I am now. I mean we all gotta have a day job aye. Not that it's day, I guess, a night job… but it's a sweet deal huh. You worked this long? Guard duty?"

Pitbull barely shrugged and continued watching the road. Dingo shifted, shoving his hands in his pockets and ploughed on.

"Wasn't my first choice, sounds kinda boring but I didn't really have a crew to get into so… pay's good. They made me an _offer I couldn't refuse_. No, no they weren't gonna kill me," he added quickly, "Just saying it's a good job… … You ever seen the Godfather? Cos I'm gonna be honest, I never liked it much. Too long. I mean it just kept going and going, you gotta know how that gets real tiring after a while, yeah?"

Pitbull replied only with a long sideward glare.

"You know what was a _good_ movie?" Dingo continued, "The Castle. That shit's classic. Not that you've seen it. Maybe you have, I dunno… don't talk much do ya?"

"I aint got much worth saying."

"Y'reckon? Oi, neither do I but that doesn't stop me." Dingo laughed and lightly punched Pitbull on the arm - not that he could budge him an inch. Seeing he got no response he fidgeted sluggishly for a bit, "Long shift though. Looong shift."

_'Gonna be a hell of a lot longer if you don't shut up.'_ Pitbull thought tiredly.

"Y'know I never worked in this neighbourhood before. Always was up by the Arena, y'know? Saw a homeless guy wanking on the way over, that was a welcome. I wasn't _looking_, but yeah, he was seriously just standing there, whackin' it, right there on the footpath. You ever seen that? It _is_ a nice night though. Not saying' it's a nice night to get your jimmies off in the middle of the street but it's a nice night."

Pitbull was now staring at his workmate with mild disgust and confusion; what on earth was so horrible in that kid's head he had to drown it out by filling every moment with chatter?

"Do you _listen_ to yourself when you talk?" Pitbull growled.

"Mate, I try not to." Dingo cracked him a wry grin, "No one wants to hear about a homeless dude furiously jerking it at you, not even me, and I was the guy who was saying' it… wait… yeah. Sorry about that."

Pitbull looked away, "I'll give you fifty bucks if you don't talk for the rest of the night."

Dingo blinked, glancing away and clearly abashed. "…Fifty? I reckon I could do that… yeah I reckon. Anyone should be alright with bein' alone with their own thoughts aye. You are. You're like a mean black Buddah. I mean not that you're fat or anything. You are bald though." At Pitbull's renewed glare, Dingo held his hands up; "Shit. Okay shutting up."

The blessed silence lasted only five minutes. Pitbull quietly observed Dingo, who chewed his thumb nail, worried eyes flickering about and looking at something distant, then up at the sky, frowning.

"…Wish there weren't so much light out here," he said and Pitbull sighed quietly. Dingo, of course, continued with a sniff and a scratch of his arm.

"Can't see stars. Maybe you can if you're a bit closer to the shore though… … you know they say there's billions of galaxies and shit, how do they know that? The scientists? I guess they got telescopes and shit… … hey, hey you reckon aliens really exist? Had a mate'a mine who had all these books about aliens coming to earth. But they could just be time-travelling humans from the future… I think _we'd_ look like aliens to cave men. But there could be aliens… How many stars are there, you think? And they could all have planets, so, y'know, there could be aliens there. I don't like thinking only Earth has life on it. That'd be… I mean that's pretty lonely…"

Dingo scuffed his shoe thoughtfully, though Pitbull was now listening with bemusement.

"Cos the universe is supposed to be getting bigger and stuff right?" Dingo said, rallying himself, "So if there are aliens out there, they're just getting further and further away from us… but that's just weird. I mean how do you know any of that is true? How can you tell that's happening? That doesn't make sense."

"The Hubble diagram."

Dingo blinked at Pitbull's sudden addition to the incredibly one-sided conversation. The thickset man was impassive.

"…What?" Dingo pressed, starting to look a little spaced out himself. Pitbull elaborated;

"Comparing how far away a galaxy or star is with how fast it's moving…"

A cricket shipped somewhere over the distant sound of traffic; Dingo tilted his head, "…Yeah but how do they _know_ how far away the thing is?"

"If it's closer than four hundred light years, you just use triangulation. Otherwise you use the brightness of the starlight. You work out speed by seeing where the light shifts on the colour spectrum."

Dingo appeared totally stunned, his mouth hanging open, "…What the _fuck_? How the hell do you know all that?"

Pitbull only shrugged.

"Did you go to college?" He pressed; Pitbull shook his head. "Why not?"

"Why do you think?" Pitbull's voice was low, but he didn't quite manage to hide the bitter taste the words left in his mouth. Dingo sniffed loudly.

"Couldn't afford it?"

Another shrug.

"Couldn't get a scholarship?"

That caused a little annoyance, "I were told if I wanted a scholarship, shoulda' gone for something in sports. Get a trade. Didn't matter. Got a mark on my record, so that was that."

Those few words were the most Pitbull had said that night, and would be for many nights to come.

"Yeah… righto," Dingo murmured thoughtfully, "…So you know about astrology and stuff?"

"Astronomy."

"Just that?"

"…Physics, biology. I like that shit."

Feeling the conversation had become too heavy, Dingo cracked a grin; "Wish I was that smart. Man I _sucked_ at science aye. _Hated_ it. Except chemistry. Obvious reasons, hah… biology we cut up some sheep's brains they got at the abb's, but they were froze, unfroze, refroze, so they fuckin' stank by the time we got to cut into'em. Me science teacher, he was a cool guy. Kinda weird lookin' though. Wasn't fat, y'know, but he was kinda like, all jelly and wobbly and stuff, it was gross. Me art teacher though, _fuck me_ she was fine! Holy shit man every school boys dream… absolute bitch, 'course, always gave me shitty grades…"

* * *

_Camano Place, Steelport, Present day_

The Torch crept slowly up the driveway of the Rim Jobs to stop the kit from scraping over the asphalt, crawling to a stop before the garage doors. It was a car that was a never-finished masterpiece; silver-grey with a shredding of purple decal up its sides, jet-black trims and an engine that purred as a great cat would. But there was always something more to be done, new speakers, new rims, nitrous…

The two Saints guarding the shop recognised it right away. China adjusted her too-tight purple top to push up her small breasts and fluffed her brown hair. She took a lot of pride in her style and had a penchant for jewellery; rings glittered from each finger and large gold hoops hung from her ears. It was strangely offset by the gun and knife strapped around her wide hips.

She was working that guard shift with her cousin Ramone, though there was little familial resemblance. He was swarthy and thick-set compared to her, though he seemed to share her love of gold, wearing two heavy chains around his neck. He grinned when he recognised the car, the gold filling on his front teeth flashing and he strode up to greet the driver as he got out.

"_Órale!_ Look who it is, dead man walking!"

Dan Xiao hid his wince under a grin as he slowly got out of the driver's side, his middle still tense around the gunshot wound. He met Ramone and China each with a sturdy street shake.

"Fatima not with you?" China asked as she went about inspecting the car. Dan's smile fell a bit and he shook his head.

"Not this time, and yeah I'm fine, thanks," he teased with good-nature. China threw him a wink over her shoulder.

"I knew that already. You getting work done today?"

"Nah girl, just visiting for now…"

"Hey, I'm just glad to see you breathin', man," Ramone reiterated, "Guessin' you didn't get that special job?"

"Guess not." Dan leant against the hood of his car, hands in his pockets, "But hey, it was worth a shot… just wish I knew what that job was!"

"Probably somethin' to do with Steelport bein' independent," China chipped in, done admiring the bodywork of the Torch. The three continued to catch up, Dan wanting to be filled in on everything that had been happening while he was recovering and his friends wanting more details about the Genki Game. One or two of the mechanics who knew Dan (or more accurately, his car) came out to smoke and welcome him back before getting back into the garage.

It was a short while before another car pulled up into the lot and China glared at it; en elegant beige Justice she'd never seen before. It wasn't uncommon to have civilians come in for a little work, but for the most part they knew their clientele well and rarely ever took drive-ins, as this particular garage wasn't _just_ for fixing engines. The cars that routinely came in for 'work' were their imports, mule cars with doors and rims loaded with loa dust, cocaine, ecstasy or whatever drug happened to be in vogue.

However, today was not a shipment day; Ramone hung back and folded his arms while China strutted over, slamming a hand on the top of the door and leaning down to glare through the glass.

The man inside slowly wound down the window, smiling kindly at her. Middle-aged, unassuming… though when he spoke, it was with a definite French accent.

"Hello there. I must apologise, I don't have an appointment today," he said, hiding his discomfort, "I was wondering if there is time today for my car to be serviced, the engine, it's making strange sounds, you see…"

"They're pretty booked up," China said flatly, "You got a name?"

"Er, yes," he fiddled with his wallet, pulling out his licence and holding it up for her, "Maximillion Dubois, miss. I _can_ pay cash, if that helps?"

At that China raised an eyebrow, "…Aiight. Head in, talk to Axe and leave your keys with him. We might be able to fit you in."

Max's smile widened.

* * *

"-Never did get that chick's number, and she was real cute too," Dingo finished with a sigh, slumping back against the front wall of the shop. Pitbull stood on the other side, listening with patient good humour and even betraying a small half smile at some of his friend's anecdotes.

He glanced back into the shop where the Boss was begrudgingly examining a loose top Shaundi was showing her; she'd been dressing in baggy workout gear lately, putting off the dreaded excursion. But now the bulge under her naval was beginning to show, and there was nothing else for it; she had to go shopping for larger clothes.

Pitbull didn't mind; it was a nice Fall day, the golden hour of late afternoon and so far his new and lucrative job as been fairly easy. Currently the only dangerous aspect was their charge's moodiness which was easy enough to handle if you knew when to duck.

"Oi, you heard back from Stilwater U?" Dingo mused. Pitbull nodded.

"Yeah man… but they got _prerequisites_ I gotta take care of."

"Fuck that shit, it's Stilwater U, not exactly an Ivy-League school."

"Yeah but I got a record…" he replied with a nod. He felt a small, smouldering coal of anger sitting in his chest; rather than dwell he took leaf from Dingo's book, forcing a little humour instead: "'Sides, all the shit goin' down in these cities, might be an idea to stick around so yo ass don't get killed."

Dingo had to laugh, "Reckon I should go too. Then I can hang around on campus with you, we can hit on all the philosophy girls who're havin' existential crises."

Pitbull chuckled silently and shook his head, looking out across the road. He frowned after a moment, eyes narrowing.

"…Cam, you see that lady over there at the bus stop?" he ventured, nodding over the road. Dingo squinted. A woman with glasses and greying hair pulled messily back from her face sat at the stop, patiently clasping her handbag. Aside from her red cardigan she was otherwise inconspicuous.

"…What, the granny?"

"Yeah."

"What about her?"

Pitbull tilted his head, "Been seein' her a lot lately…"

"Really mate?" Dingo cracked a cheeky grin, "She doesn't seem your type."

"Shut the fuck up man. I mean been seein' her around whenever we head out."

Dingo frowned at her, "…Yeah, maybe. Better be careful. She could be plotting to get the Boss with a knitting needle or poison her tea-cake."

"If you was havin' someone followed, would you have a PI in sunglasses an' a trench coat, or someone who _wouldn't_ stand out?" Pitbull was patient with his explanation, and soon Dingo gave it proper consideration.

"…So, go over there and scare her off. It's what you do best." When Pitbull didn't reply Dingo sighed, "You want me to do it? Jeez man, you can accuse a grandma of spying but you won't go over there and spook her a bit?"

In that instant the door flew opened and the Boss stepped out, shoving a bag at Dingo as Shaundi followed her. He followed them along at a respectful distance, calmly keeping an eye on the surrounding street as they headed for the car. The two women for the most part ignored them, carrying on a conversation they must have been having inside;

"You're an absolute delight, you know that?" Shaundi teased and the Boss sighed.

"Gimme a break, I just found out my _feet_ were fat," she grumbled, yanking open the car door and slumping into the driver's side of the Blade, having refused flatly to be chauffeured anywhere. Shaundi took shotgun, leaving Pitbull and Dingo to fill up the back. Starting up the car and pulling into the street, she continued,

"I'm _bored_, Shaundi… It's like all I get to do these days is eat, sleep and take care of business…"

"You need a project?" Shaundi asked, and the Boss twisted her lips.

"Maybe a new business venture…? I just get so removed from everything."

"Well, so long as it's nothing dangerous - Boss _don't_ give me that look."

"What look? I'm not giving a look," the Boss said, despite the narrow, shrewd glare she was shooting her friend. Shaundi had to smirk;

"That look like you're gonna go poke a bear with a stick just to see what happens," she argued. The Boss smiled and shook her head. "Look if you want a little fun we'll go out tonight-"

"Ehh… partying wasn't really what I had in mind…"

Shaundi rolled her eyes a little, "Never is."

"Hey, I'd enjoy the downtime if I were you," Dingo suddenly voiced from the back; the Boss blinked and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Dingo simply smiled back, "Trust me, when the little grommit comes along you won't have time to be bored. Or time to do _anything_, come to think of it."

"…Okay, point," the Boss said, but with a slight frown. "But I'm talking about _my_ brand of leisure here. I wanna do a job… like robbing a bank or something. Of course the last time we tried that it didn't turn out so great… Besides, we have money. But _shit_, I need something to do before we end up toppling a South American government for kicks."

Pitbull spared a sideward glance to his friend; he still wasn't used to the surreal experience of overhearing such sociopathic conversations.

"You'd be better off keeping the political terrorism local," Shaundi teased again and the Boss grinned.

"There _are_ a lot of lobbyists out there who are a-moral dicks - not that I'm one to talk about morality…" she mused, her two guards a little unnerved by how serious she sounded when considering it. "I wouldn't mind killing Walton Murdhart though."

"_That'd_ be satisfying…" Shaundi agreed whimsically, "A lot of planning and tracking involved though, you can't kill a multibillionaire right-wing media monster without getting the wrong kind of attention."

"True…"

They'd crossed the bridge back into Downtown, arriving at the HQ. Even now the rubble had been cleared the streets were still somewhat deserted; life and activity was slow to start up again on the central island and almost every building was under heavy repair. As it turned out the Saints preferred it, even if it meant living in the half-repaired HQ penthouse. The Boss would simply shrug, saying she'd wanted to redecorate anyway.

The elevator doors slid open and the four stepped to the semi-renovated space, Pitbull bringing up the rear. Music echoed about the concrete walls and the huge TV was playing on mute; voices drifted down from the mezzanine level above, along with the click and clatter of a game of pool.

"We're back-" Shaundi announced as the small group made their way upstairs. Pitbull blinked with some surprise at the sight; Johnny Gat was casually chalking his pool cue, while Tasha leant over the green felt table, peering narrowly as she went to take her shot. She wasn't due to take over his shift for a half hour, so while the others made their greetings he sidled his way over to her.

"Hey, Tasha… you're early," he greeted awkwardly. Her powerful arm snapped a hard shot sending a few of the balls ricocheting around the table.

"Didn't have much else on today, thought I'd do a sweep of the building, go over how some of those new kids patrol the entryways. The cameras in use could do with an upgrade." She stood back from the game, dissatisfied. "You can clock off early if you want."

Gat cocked an eyebrow at her words, casually lining up his shot, "And you say you aint ever done this shit before?"

A small but evidently proud smile crossed Tasha's eyes, and once Gat had sunk one and missed his next, she took her shot. She did naturally shoulder more responsibility, even coming up with the rotating roster of eight hour shifts they operated on week to week.

The Boss sat wearily down into an armchair, legs curling up under her and tired eyes blinking vacantly at the game. Seeing her exhaustion Gat quirked a wry smile.

"Crazy day?" he teased. She smiled, her eyes slipping closed a moment as she replied.

"If only. Anyone coming 'round tonight?"

"Nope. Thinkin' of heading' down to the Shillelagh, some'a the crew are there. Y'know, if you aint too tired from _shopping_."

The Boss responded with a gentle, affectionate smile and a middle finger. It was only a moment later she began to doze in earnest, her body now so easily worn out.

"We should've take her to Stitches; it's where I got this shirt, real nice one," Dingo jumped in as if by compulsion. He leant over to Shaundi, nudging a sleeve at her, "Light weight, has some UV protection, here, give it a feel."

She held back her frown but curiously rubbed a little of the sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. "Hn. What material is that?"

"Boyfriend material."

She abruptly dropped her hand and rolled her eyes. "…You've been waiting all day to use that line."

"Smooth as a cactus," Gat purred, potting the black triumphantly. He leaned back and cracked his neck. "Should'a played for cash."

"I don't gamble," Tasha replied dryly. While she racked up another game Gat wandered to the bar to get his beer - from the corner of his eye Pitbull caught a rare moment of tenderness, when Gat gently ran a hand over the Boss's hair as he passed her half-sleeping self. It made him happy to see it; perhaps their family life wouldn't be as dysfunctional as he first thought, and the baby would have a good shot at a normal, comfortable life. He stood to the corner of the room, content to silently observe the familial scene, finding himself reluctant to head home just yet.

Though from this vantage point he was the first to see through the windows, the distant bloom of orange flame far out on the western island. He wasn't sure what it was at first till the deep _pop _of the explosion rolled in seconds later.

"Yo- hey anyone else see that?"

Everyone paused when he spoke, as it happened so rarely - even the Boss stirred, sleepily blinking over at him from her chair then out the window to where he was pointing, the distant blaze of fire glowing brilliantly in the near-night.

At once half the phones in the room all chimed with the same automated message from Kinzie's surveillance net; the Boss, Gat and Shaundi at once looked from the messages to one another.

_'System Disruption: Camano RJ garage'_

The Boss cracked her knuckles, reinvigorated and fast on her feet as adventure finally called.

"Looks like the Shillelagh is gonna have to wait."

* * *

The sheer destruction became clear when the small convoy turned down the street; flames were spreading to the rooftops of nearby buildings, cars were blasted to the other side of the road along with the scattered lumps of burned bodies. Every window in every building and car was shattered with the blast force.

A few local gawkers had already shown up, some watching from their shattered windows while others roamed the sidewalk and filmed the blaze on their phones, till they saw the two purple cars roll in. Most then had enough sense to leave the area, only a few lurked about in the shadows. In the distance, the howls of the fire engine sirens began growing through the city.

The two cars halted by one another, the Boss taking one step out of the Hammerhead with her hands still on the open door. Gat and Tasha followed suit, as Shaundi, Dingo and Pitbull swiftly climbed from the Blade. They looked on with some amazement at the Rim Jobs; or, what was left of it. The garage was a flaming, charred skeleton of itself, bricks, broken glass and metal littering the street and pouring an infernal heat into the air. The Boss put one hand on her hip and another up to shield her eyes.

"Holy flaming dog shit…" she murmured. One of the last parts of the roof creaked and collapsed inwards with a massive burst of sparks and embers dancing upwards; like lightning Tasha had her arm out and put herself between the inferno and the Boss. Pitbull quickly lumbered over with Dingo in toe. He tried not looking at the burned bodies on the road, and put the back of his hand to his nose as a powerful smell burned his nostrils.

"I don't think it was just gasoline and nitrous tanks…" he offered solemnly, "The amount they got here wouldn't do all that damage on its own. An' you smell that? Smells like ammonium nitrate."

"I seen enough car bombings to recognise one," Gat chimed in as he began surveying the scene. He glared, "You think it's those pimps retaliating?"

"They're all dead… unless one slipped through the cracks-" The Boss suddenly stopped herself when she caught sight of one of the crumpled, burning cars flipped and thrown nearly to the other side of the street. _A Torch_. Though slowly flaming away and the engine blasted off, the side was somewhat intact. Silver-grey, and a familiar custom decal down the side.

"Oh… _shit_…" she breathed, taking a few steps towards it despite her guards trying to halt her. After a moment her hunting gaze turned to the road and the scattered, smouldering bodies that lay upon it. One was a little smaller, maybe female, but like the others almost all clothes and skin were melted beyond recognition. She moved quickly from one to another, gut wrenching at every charred purple scrap she saw before coming upon a body that lay face down on the road. The build was masculine, the skin and clothes of his back black and bloody, still smoking from the fire.

Gingerly, and holding her breath against the stink she slowly turned the corpse.

Dan Xiao's half-melted face stared back vacantly, expression showing only a hint of surprise; he was dead before he knew what hit him. The Boss closed her eyes, head bowing. Beside him Pitbull heard Tasha make a small noise, covering her mouth and turning away. Gat swore lowly when he saw the body, and even Dingo was at a loss for words when he recognised the corpse. The Boss stood, letting go of a breath and pacing a little.

And still something niggled in Pitbull's mind, a concern as he began putting the scene together. If someone knew enough about the garage to know it belonged to the Saints, wouldn't they also know, or have some suspicion of what was stored there? The money, the drugs, it was a small fortune no small time criminal would destroy without another thought, certainly not on purpose.

He looked up, around the streets. He could still hear the sirens wailing but there was still no sign of the truck. And the people who were still waiting around were now creeping from the shadows, most of them scrawny, their eyes sunken.

Pitbull knew it in less than a second; _junkies_. They'd stretch their mouths, their eyes were a wide and unblinking. They'd fidget, sniff, and jaws would twitch, and all of them were edging about and glaring at the crew as if waiting for some sort of signal. He saw some holding crow bars, tyre irons…

Till finally a thin girl in torn jeans held back no longer, drawing her pea-shooter gun and throwing her aim out at the Boss, pulling the trigger with a manic shriek.


	9. Hitting Home

**Whoah, I'm back, finally. And now a Mrs! I promise that is the end of my gushing though. Thank you all for your patience over these past few weeks, hope this is worth the wait.**

* * *

Hitting Home

"_Boss!_"

Pitbull dove at her, an arm out and tackled her down; he only managed to _just_ turn as the last moment to avoid crushing the woman.

The hot sting over his back and side told him he'd been hit though he felt no shock of impact; but in that moment, the street exploded once again into chaos.

The junkie girl who'd pulled the trigger barely got her second shot out before her head was thrown back, the force of a bullet spraying her brains out of the back of her skull. Gat glared hatefully down his smoking gun at her, turning as more strung out tweakers began charging. One flew at him from the left, a crowbar raised above his head and swinging down - Gat's free hand shot out, grabbing the man by the wrist and twisting him, throwing him face down to the ground and wrenching his arm from the socket. The junkie's howl of pain was quickly silenced by the bullet fired into the back of his head.

"Too easy," Gat chuckled darkly, throwing his aim out again and quickly putting down two more addicts Shaundi was fighting against, attention snatched again when he ward the Boss shout-

"Get _off_ me!" She grunted furiously, but it was as she fought against her guards as they tried to drag her to the car, and she was struggling to unload her magazine and join the fight. Gat could see the blood slowly blooming from Pitbull's side, but the man seemed unaffected by it.

They were still trying to move her to the car when a bottle sailed through the air, amber glass glinting against the flaming rag that draped from it - it smashed down on the roof of the car, fire flooding down the sides and windshield. The Boss' jaw dropped in indignation.

"Son of a _bitch!_" she barked furiously, "My Hammerhead!"

Junkies shambled at them like zombies, more cannon fodder for the Saints to put down, seemingly oblivious to the futility of their attack. One ran screaming straight past Gat, a knife raised at the Boss. Gat grabbed the back of his neck, swinging him to the ground; gripping the junkie's head he pulled and twisted, the vertebrae giving a satisfying _pop-crack_. The scrawny body went limp beneath him - and still the thinning numbers closed in on them.

Then a screeching of tyres and purr of an engine; a familiar Infuego tore down the street and slammed into the last junkies, wiry bodies flipping over the car and leaving red smears over the pearlescent white paint and purple trims. Gat spared one last survey of the road, spinning his gun in his hand when he was satisfied every junkie was dead.

Pierce Washington stepped out of the car, inspecting the scene with bemusement. There was a glazed look in his eyes that told the rest of the crew he had more a few drinks under his belt.

"Got the message about this place… _damn_," he observed as Gat strolled over.

"Yo, what took you so long?"

"Gettin' whiskey shots and a blow job at the Shillelagh," Pierce replied frankly and with a smirk. The Boss rolled her eyes, hand covering a deep cut on her arm.

"It's like you're _asking_ for the Hep," she drawled, frowning to her bodyguard, "Pitbull, you ok?"

He was stoically nursing the bleeding gash at his side, and nodded silently while Dingo checked it over. The Australian winced at the sight.

"Shit mate. You're lucky you're one fat motherfucker cos that really took a chunk outta you."

Gat was blasé in the situation; the guards were paid to take a bullet for the Boss if they had to, so Pitbull had just proved his worth. Though concern grew fast when he saw the Boss holding her arm, thick smears of red blood over her pale skin and a dark puddle on the road.

"Shit, you're bleeding," he said, striding over and inspecting her arm. She shrugged with a small smile at his worrying; he'd never been easily worked up before.

"Hey, Johnny relax," she said, "You seen me a lot worse than this. It was just a bit of glass on the road - Pitbull took the bullet."

"Yeah yeah good job," Gat dismissed, pulling a bandana from his jacket pocket and tying off her arm. Pitbull meanwhile moved to patiently lean on the hood of Pierce's car; Tasha spoke up for him this time.

"We should get Pitbull treated. Cy Morrison would be the closest patch we have here."

"Yeah, I can run him there," Dingo offered but Tasha shook her head.

"You're on the clock," she warned; before Dingo could retort Pierce pitched in.

"Hey I'll take him. Swing by the bar once he's all patched up-"

"Pierce you should _not_ be driving," Shaundi argued, taking his keys from him. For a moment it seemed he might argue, but wound up just shrugging; there was no problem with being chauffeured around. Shaundi turned back to the group;

"You alright for me to take them?"

The Boss nodded, "No problem. Pitbull, give me a call when you're fixed up, okay?"

The man nodded silently again; the Boss often came off as cold, but he heard a hint of gratitude and concern in her words. He clambered into the car along with Shaundi and Pierce; as the Infuego pulled away and disappeared down the road a wailing fire engine turned the corner, at last closing in on the still flaming building.

"Looks like that's our cue," Gat announced as the group made their way to the Blade, the Hammerhead still with flames licking over it's roof and windshield. The Boss put the heel of her flat boot on the emaciated body of one of their attackers as she passed it, rolling him over so she could get a look at his face.

"So. Junkies," she decided, "At least we know who the culprit was."

"Why would junkies blow up a Rim Jobs?" Tasha added thoughtfully.

"Guess they found out what the garage was used for." At their vacant stares, she shrugged, "Import-export. The cars we get in from Stilwater were packed with drugs. They're taken apart here, the product is distributed… I'm guessing they overestimated the explosives they'd need to take the place down. Also means we have a leak somewhere." She twisted her lips a little as she made a mental checklist, "I need to move the operations from the other Rim Jobs to a different garage, see if we can find out who's been talking… Shame we didn't leave any of these guys alive."

More sirens built up on the island as the firefighters set to work; the Saints were gone before the first ambulance arrived, and long before a single police officer stepped onto the scene.

* * *

Trouble greeted them when they were back to the Penthouse, head butting the Boss in the knees and licking at the dried blood running down her arm. He got a short cuddle from her before she had to shove him off, the huge tiger instead wandering after Gat, who'd gotten off the phone with Pierce and poured himself a whiskey. He rather underhandedly left a spill on the floor for the tiger to lap at. Tasha had a first aid kit out almost as soon as they were back at the penthouse; she and the Boss settled on the couch while she carefully cleaned out the Boss' cut and patched it up.

Dingo meanwhile was pacing, a frown over his usually happy face. He'd pause, glance at the Boss, scratch at his dreadlocks and pace again. Finally he halted before the two women.

"…Boss, sorry but I gotta ask about what went down back there."

The Boss titled her head, "You were _there_. You saw what happened, no mystery."

"No, I mean when we were tryin' to do our job and get you outta danger, and you just wanted to jump right into the middle of a bunch of meth-heads who were trying to ice you," he retorted, a little hotly. He could almost feel Tasha's warning glare, but he was used to taking liberties. Gat had strolled back over, cooly drinking back the neat whiskey.

The Boss rolled her disbelieving look to Dingo, "I've played games of laser tag that were bigger challenges." She paused, her gaze a little distant as she recalled a memory, "You know it kinda took me back…"

"Clearin' out the old HQ?" Gat mused, leaning on his elbows over the back of the couch.

"Hm? Oh yeah, that too. I mean I was thinking about the Samedi, those Loa addicts were just so strung out… Man that was so long ago…"

The two shared in nostalgia, Gat chuckling at the memory, "Almost sad to see the Samedi go," he thought aloud, "Yo say what you want about them, but they _were_ entertainin'."

The Boss laughed at a memory, "When they caught me and fucked me up on all those drugs, then attacked the HQ-"

"You and that _fuckin'_ rocket launcher," Gat added with a grin and the two chuckled.

"-I swear, the shit I was seeing on all that Loa, the Samedi looked like aliens-"

Dingo interrupted them by loudly clearing his throat, "Yeah, great, but that was _then_. But today, the first time we run into real danger, you won't let us protect you, like we're hired to do."

"I wouldn't call that real danger, it was a rumble at best," Gat purred, the Boss smiling. She was the only one though; Tasha was cautiously quiet as she listened, and Dingo was trying to reign in his angry glare.

"…My best mate just took a bullet for you," he said hotly; the Boss' smile faded a touch and Dingo sat down on the coffee table opposite her, elbows on his knees, "Listen, I know shit like that seems small time to you, but Boss, it's different now. What's gonna happen if something serious _does_ go down? Are you still planning on leaping from a helicopter into the top level of a skyscraper, or getting into a gunfight with a militia? Are you gonna let us do our job?"

"I'm not an invalid and I got a pretty huge fuckin' business to run-"

"You are gonna have a _baby_," he continued on regardless, "Surviving for two. You gotta _work_ with us here, don't worry so much about the business (you got plenty'a good people helping you out there) and start thinking about the _kid_."

"I _am_ thinking about the kid, why the hell do you think you were all hired in the first place?" The Boss shot back, her ire growing fast. Gat was silent; he didn't like being reminded the Boss was becoming vulnerable, that their lives were really changing. A sentiment made even more complicated because he knew underneath it all, he was agreeing with Dingo.

Dingo leant back, eyebrows raised and he jutted his chin forward. "Really? Ok. So you know where you're gonna live?"

The Boss blinked, nonchalant. "Well… here?"

There was a beat of silence. Dingo folded his arms.

"Here…? With the open staircase, unfenced swimming pool and helipad, renovations you're getting nowhere with and half the furniture has all these sharp edges?" he said frankly, causing the soon-to-be parents to become suddenly dumbfounded. Amazed that they hadn't even considered _that_, he ploughed on:

"You thought about baby-proofing? Where's the kid's room gonna be? You gonna use a pram or be one of those marsupial mums? Is the newborn sleeping in bed with you or a crib in your room, when you're weaning you gonna make the food yourself or feed it outta jars? Do you even know the vaccination programs for a kid? What are you gonna do when he's screaming all night, or gets sick and goes number three?"

"…The fuck is a number three?" Gat asked.

"It's where they sneeze, shit and spit up all at the same time and yeah, it's gonna happen, they just… explode."

Even Tasha blanched at the description and Gat leant back, looking to the Boss.

"Yeah, you're taking care of that." In one swift move, he downed his entire drink.

"Okay, who the hell made you the expert on all of this?" the Boss indignantly shot at Dingo. He sighed.

"This aint my first rodeo. And it's not just what happens when it actually arrives; you're starting your second trimester, you even thought about _names?_ Getting an ultrasound? You waiting till it's born to find out if it's a boy or girl?"

She suddenly held up her hands; "Stop. You know what, you were hired to make sure my ass doesn't get killed, not to lecture me on what a shitty mom I'm gonna be."

"I'm not lecturing, I just-"

"Go home. Mongrel is gonna be here soon, just… go see Pitbull or something."

Another quiet filled the room, and Dingo looked defeated, glancing to Tasha who gave a short, sympathetic nod. He stood, "…Yeah. Sure."

With that, he left, and Tasha patted down the finished dressing on the Boss' arm. Feeling awkward and seeing the Boss looking a little pale she stood up.

"You know what," he said lightly, brushing her hands on her jeans, "I'm gonna get started on dinner, how's that? Okay…"

The Boss didn't really respond, instead glaring through the coffee table, her mind in a whirl as she went over the barrage of information Dingo had unloaded on her. Gat moved slowly around to slump down onto the couch, an arm slung over the Boss' shoulders. Both looked shell shocked.

"That… was a lot," he said. The Boss swallowed.

"Yeah." She looked around the penthouse as if seeing it for the first time; slick, bare concrete that still had some scorch marks, wires snaking around, tape still over one of the windows. Coffee table with evil, deadly sharp corners ready to stab out the eyes of a small child. Wires sticking out of holes in the new drywall waiting to have the outlets put in, and threatening to electrocute a curious kid with all the fury of Thor. And like that she was on the crest of another mood swing, throat getting tight as a horrible depression gripped.

"Oh god I'm gonna be the worst mother!" she croaked, and Johnny tucked her in tighter under his arm as she started to ramble, "I- Dingo is right. I've gone ahead and decided to do this and I don't even think about it… shouldn't I be excited? Glowing? But I don't, I have no maternal instincts, _none_."

"Yo, don't start up on that," Johnny placated her, "You're a sociopathic crime lord sure, but you got instincts. You been takin' care of the Saints for years."

"When I was five, I had a cabbage patch doll that I left out in the rain because I was _mad_ at him. Mushrooms grew out of his head."

"You aint five anymore," Gat couldn't help but chuckle at her, glancing past her to the kitchen; Tasha was out of sight but the knocking of pots and pans told him she was busy. '_Probably making steamed vegetables or some other super-healthy crap.'_

Neither he nor the Boss had ever been huge on opening up and sharing or indulging in their emotions; in a weird way, it worked for them. He knew if he had to, he could tell her anything and she wouldn't pressure him or try to weasel anything more out, and more importantly, not judge him any differently. Until recently she had been much the same; but with her hormones completely out of sync the filter between her brain and her mouth was all but gone, so there were a few new emotional displays.

Yes, it was strange seeing her so vulnerable; he had to wonder if it was this chaotic in her head all the time. And seeing the raw doubt she had in herself was rattling, because he and absolute faith in her handling this; he had to.

"Trust me, you're gonna do just fine," he ventured. There was a rumbling chuff by them, and Trouble liberally climbed up onto the couch, flopping his mighty, meaty head down on the Boss' lap, demanding attention. She scratched her nails in behind his rosy ears, a small smile returning. Gat nudged her, "You're good with that tiger, right? A kid can't be that hard. I mean shit you gotta be better than me."

"What?" She asked, blinking at him with surprise, "No, _you'll_ be good at this, you're very protective."

"Yeah well, good intentions aint gonna amount to much. Could play out different in reality." It was a flicker of doubt that sometimes crossed his mind. He could feel as protective as he wanted; it didn't equate to him acting effectively on it…'_It didn't keep Aisha safe,' _he wondered.

"I'm a lot more talented in revenge," Gat purred to mask his doubt.

"Johnny, you've got _many_ more talents," she replied slyly, earning a wry smirk from him. He could feel her examining him though, looking into his mind like she could read his thoughts; her weight shifted against him, her cool skin closer. He turned to meet her when she leant up, gently kissing his lips. They lingered, indulging in the sensation and deepening the kiss. Finally she pulled back, still close into his side, her gaze thoughtful.

"…I'm really glad I got you," she said quietly, "I wouldn't be here today if I didn't."

Rare, raw and affectionate; Johnny allowed himself to indulge in it a while, pressing a kiss onto the top of her head, smiling into her hair.

"…What, up the duff and unmarried?"

She snorted a laugh and weakly thumped him. Adjusting to lean into his shoulder, the Boss' eyes fell on the apartment again, reminding her of her initial panic and causing her to frown.

"There's still a lot to do," she murmured, "Maybe we can't stay here… and I _haven't_ even began thinking about names. You'd think that'd all be picked out already."

"…Alright, so lets pick a name tonight, cross that off the list and not worry for the rest of the week," Gat said with a shrug, lazily putting his feet up on the coffee table. Liking the idea they could create some illusion of progress, the Boss sat up a little more.

"Yeah. Okay, let's do this," she decided, frowning with thought. Looking for names in the family seemed like a good place to start, limited though their family was.

"…Hana?" She offered. Gat turned slowly to give her an arched look.

"You do know my mother was a notorious crack whore, right?" he said dryly.

"Sounds nicer than Peggy-Sue," she replied with a shrug, "Elizabeth?"

"We live in Steelport, not 1805."

"Well, what have you got?"

"Yo don't look at me, I gotta think."

"Then how about I keep listing off names and you keep shutting them down?"

"Sounds good."

Another thoughtful quiet, then the Boss brightened; "…Aislinn?"

Johnny looked at her as if she'd grown a second head, "The lion from that book?"

"Not Aslan, _Aislinn,_ it's Iri- no? Okay."

"Bella?" Gat put forward, though it seemed to be the first name that came skipping off the top of his head. The Boss scrunched her face up.

"Dear fucking god, no. That sounds like something white people call a designer dog. It's not a fucking 'cavoodle', it's a _mutt_, they need to make peace with that." Mini rant over, she added another name; "Emma."

"Why you only coming up with girl names?" He broached and she shrugged.

"Fine, fine… Raph."

"…Woman you are _not_ tryin' to name my kid after a fuckin' ninja turtle."

Indignant (and a little embarrassed), she folded her arms, "For your information, Raphael was a prominent Renascence artist."

"Oh yeah?" Gat pressed, raising his eyebrows and his voice dripping with sarcasm, "What did he make?"

"I- y'know, like… drawings and… sculptures and shit-"

"He was an architect."

"-An architect, yeah. See?" After a moment the Boss looked to Gat quizzically, "How the fuck did you know that?"

"Might'a picked it up in Italy." Gat paused, gaze narrowing a little as he pondered, "I wanna say Bruce, but that just don't sound right if it aint followed by Lee, Wayne or Willis."

"I know, right?" The Boss sighed, "Damien?"

"No," he replied flatly. "…I think we've already used up all the good names in aliases."

"I know. Murdernaut McPsycho was so pretty." She snapped her fingers, "Jet?"

"…Maybe pile?" Gat mused with a nod. "Hell if it's a boy we could just go with… Johnny Junior or something- aaand you just looked at my crotch."

The Boss grinned, "I didn't-"

"Well, Junior's off the table, I don't wanna be thinkin' of dick jokes every time I hear it."

Behind them the elevator chimed, doors sliding open as Mongrel walked into the scene, a little dishevelled; he'd clearly rushed over, a little early for his shift. At first the Boss and Gat didn't seem to notice;

"Jane?"

"Hm, no… Jack?"

"Jack's alright… Darcy?"

"That aint bad-"

Glancing around for Tasha, Blake finally made his appearance known, clearing his throat and approaching the two.

"Hey, I got Tasha's call, what happened?" he asked, holding his phone up; he'd been expecting some scene of chaos. Instead, the Boss and Gat blinked up at him from where they sat.

"Hey Mongrel. Yeah man you missed a good one tonight," Gat said, the Boss nodding and elaborating.

"Garage blew up, we're looking into who's responsible… Pitbull got shot but we're pretty sure it's just a flesh wound, Shaundi and Pierce took him to get patched up."

Blake's jaw had dropped a little, "Was anyone else hurt?"

"Nope… I cut my arm but that's about it." A thought suddenly occurred to her, "Hey if you had a kid, what would you call it?"

"…Excuse me?"

"If you had a _kid_, what would you call them?"

At first incapable of answering to her blasé attitude, Blake mumbled for a moment before deciding on what to say.

"… Well, if it was a boy I'd probably suggest a family name. Brion maybe. But for a girl… I've sort of liked Hope."

The couple exchanged glances, musing over the names for a while.

"Hope is kinda nice…" the Boss mused.

"I dunno. See, I hear Hope, then think'a names like Charity and Chastity, and then I'm thinkin' of strippers."

Blake frowned, refusing to let the name be spoiled by that association, instead seeking out Tasha and leaving the small family to muse over their options. It only took an hour of fruitless suggestions for them to give up.

* * *

Max kept his head down and hands in the pockets of his coat, slinking down the side of the chain link fence till he found the hole that had been cut into it, letting him into the overgrown property.

The house was generous and tall, two storeys made three by converting an attic; in it's heyday it would have been a beautiful Californian bungalow. But since it's abandonment it had fallen into disrepair; scorch marks crept up from one window, every other one boarded up. Cracks appeared through the rendering, the entire front shrouded by overgrown bush and grass. It was a little sad to see, but the building suited their needs, not only for it's privacy, but for all of the previous tenants.

For the past two years the building operated as a crack house and squat. It had been tricky to remove the previous cook and dealer; the man's mind was completely gone from the damage drug manufacturing had done to his brain. So, it took them tempting him with their own product, then a little more, and more, till finally the overdose took over.

It was the first time Max had intentionally taken a life; he'd tell himself it was as much the dealer's fault as his own, but in the grand scheme of things it was only one small life, a life that by his reasoning was already thrown away. And now they and the monopoly over this coterie of drug addicts. Not that drug manufacturing and ever been his life's goal, but he and Nanette had more than enough skill and know-how to create a product the junkies craved.

Max put his shoulder against the old wooden door, shoving his way inside. It tended to stick, as the frame was beginning to warp. The walls inside were stained, graffitied and the wallpaper peeled away. He was greeted again by the powerful stink of the house; unwashed bodies, chemicals and urine stained the air. He could hear from one room addled minds talking nonsense to each other. A thin girl sat on the stairs, eyes glazed and fingers barely gripping the glass pipe in her hand. Max gingerly made his way through the space that was once a living room, careful not to step on the strung out bodies around him. To one corner a man had crawled onto one of the girls, lazily thrusting into her, neither caring about the open display. She still had a little vomit caked to one cheek.

Max shook his head; they were already zombies as it was. It was almost fitting these people would be their unwitting guinea pigs. Some had already served a good purpose tonight, attacking the Saints at the garage. All it had taken was a promise of all the drugs they could snort, smoke or shoot.

"Pity they all died," he muttered, starting up the creaking stairs. The smell was a little less up here, the rooms a little cleaner. They did their best to keep the addicts downstairs, upstairs reserved for the lab and their work.

He paused at one door, knocking first but entering anyway. The room was perhaps the cleanest of them all, floors and walls having been scrubbed, work stations set up through the space. It was their primary lab, no drug cooking in here. Only _real_ work, funded by their own cash reserves and any profit they and made from their patents.

Nanette was sitting at a makeshift desk, scribbling down algorithms onto pieces of paper when she quickly looked up, eyes hopeful at Max's return.

"_How did it go?_" she asked in her native French, chair scraping as she abruptly stood.

Max smiled fondly at her; "_Quite well. The bomb worked excellently - though I am sad to see that car go. I managed to find a good view from a building across the road. Those addicts we sent, though… none of them survived the ensuing fight."_

Nanette put her fingers to her lips, "_Ah, I expected as much. But was _she_ there? Did you manage to get a specimen?_"

Max nodded, pulling a syringe from his pocket, "_The Saints leader was injured, she left a good deal of blood behind. It's not ideal; I had to scavenge this from a puddle on the road, but I've worked with worse." _He began diving up the contents of the syringe into heamatocrits and test tubes, handing one to Nanette,_ "Here; run the haematology on that. I'll start the biochemistry_."

"_I'm anxious to see this sample under the microscope…_" she said eagerly, as they began setting about their work. Machines buzzed and centrifuges whirled, and it was a while before either spoke.

"_Johnny Gat was there,_" Max told her. She paused, about to finish the blood smear on a glass slide.

"_Was he hurt?_" She asked. Max hummed.

"_No. No I don't think so._"

She only nodded. Realising he might have hit on something still tender, Max changed the subject.

"_Any progress made with the serum?_"

"_Not as much as I'd like,_" Nanette said with a shake of her head, "_I had to do a cook._"

Max nodded; addicts _did_ need their drugs, there was no other way to gain their cooperation and loyalty. Until the serum was perfected, that is; then they would obey without question, and would not need to be bribed with methamphetamine, or Loa, or heroine or whatever other drug they could get their hands on.

Nanette frowned into the eyepiece as she looked down the microscope. She'd make her adjustments,

"_Her blood cells… white _and_ red, they looks like… they are so similar to Subject One. So similar we may be able to use _this _sample to replace Carlos. I _knew_ those two were linked… but how? Did Subject One infect her or…_"

She wracked her mind, going right back to the beginning. The Discovery of Carlos Mendoza's body in Mourning Woods, his strange state of suspended animation, of un-death. That Max formulated the Arapice Island toxin from him. What was it they discovered? His flesh would respond to living blood, more so of females blood type O negative. That it showed signs of regeneration. And that when Carlos had fed from her, he was under her control.

"_Max, do you know her blood type yet?_"

"_Soon…_"

She drummed her fingers, furious, frustrated. "_If I could know their history, how they were linked aside from being in the same gang… Max… could it be possible that she, that woman… is the true source of this un-death? If_ that_ is the link between her and Carlos?_"

When Max didn't answer right away she looked up indignantly, "_Max? Are you listening to me?_"

He was not. He was instead looking down as a printed sheet of results for her basic biochemistry and haematology.

"_…Nanette…_" he said cautiously, "_I… There's something more here. Her hCG…_"

Nannette looked up sharply, striding over and snatching the paper from him. She scanned the results, eyes widening in some surprise. For a moment, something of pain, anger, envy flashed over her face but it was gone in an instant. She calmly examined the paper, her voice frozen when she spoke.

"_The Saint whore is with child…_"


	10. Ambition's Debt

**Phew! Seem to be getting back into the swing of things, thank you all for the encouragement :)**

* * *

Ambition's Debt

The suburban house thudded loudly as huge speakers shook it to it's foundations. It was packed, people skin to skin on the sofas, a coffee table upended to make room for dancing and beer bongs. Almost everyone crammed into the house wore a flash of purple somewhere on them. The party had started innocently enough as a cook-out, but as the night wore on and the tequila kept flowing, more Saints arrived to blow off steam.

Blake was among them. He stood outside with the others, figuring the cold, early November air and some heavy second hand smoke was preferable to being deafened inside; besides that, he had some old friends to catch up with. He held Dice comfortably in his arms, his jacket wrapped around both of them, her back to his chest. She nuzzled and wriggled back into him a little teasingly, taking another drunken swig of her 40oz.

Bert was there, one of the few friends who now stayed on in Steelport; after the events with the Daedalus, most of the old crews had started trickling back to Stilwater. It was mostly Steelport natives who remained now and built up the major force of the gang.

"Y'see I was thinkin'a going back," Bert said swirling his drink about with a playful sense of bravado, "But y'know, I got a good thing going here. And you know wherever the Boss is, the action is. Shit's always going crazy around her." Bert hiccoughed, "But man they been quiet lately… I dunno. Something big is about to go down, somethin' major's coming."

"No it's not!" Dice suddenly blurted, pointing her beer at him and desperately reeling herself in, her blinking not quite in unison. "See… I'm just sayin', y'know, nothin's happening…"

The strange exclamation didn't get past Blake, though it flew right over Bert's head, "Says you, short-round," he said, "I bet you heard the rumours, they were going around looking for the toughest of the Saints, best of the best. _I think_," he started, leaning in and dropping his voice to an over-dramatic whisper, "They're gonna take the Whitehouse."

Blake could't hold back his snort; before he could say anything Bert defensively continued; "No, listen! They made these islands city-states, right? And Mayor Reynold's term is coming up, same in Stilwater, you think they're not gonna have one of _our guys_ on the inside running for Mayor? I mean, this is a city state, Boss could declare herself Queen is she was up for it."

Resisting the urge to assure Bert the Saints higher-ups would have much more pressing matters on their minds, Blake feigned a thoughtful nod.

"Could be that. Or maybe it's… a militia. You said this was a city state; it'd be reasonable for the Saints to try and organise our defences better."

The rationality of that response stopped Bert in his tracks, clearly deflating his dreams of a glorious Saints civil war. Dice fidgeted.

"Yeah… that sounds right," she agreed thoughtfully, her snub nose scrunching in thought. Not easy, being inebriated as she was.

Blake added, "I don't think it's as serious as you make it sound, talent scouting the Saints."

"Why's that?"

The corner of Blake's mouth lifted, "Well, they would have come to Dice, would't they?"

"_Aw!_ You…" Dice twisted in Blake's arms, head tilting back for a kiss; when he obliged, Bert made loud gagging noises at the pair. Angry her moment had been ruined Dice stuck a finger up at him.

"Jealous!" she snapped.

"Nuh-uh," Bert replied, lifting his chin, "I'm a rollin' stone, baby. A lone ranger. Man like me, aint never gonna be tied down."

"'Cept to ya left hand," Dice sniggered, and it was Bert's turn to give the rude gestures and a grin. After a beat, Blake tried to stifle a yawn; it didn't go unnoticed.

"What, borin' you are we?" Bert chuckled. Dice snuggled into her boyfriend defensively.

"He's been workin' a lot the past month," she added, but there was an edge to her tone suggesting it was a sore spot with her. Bert nodded.

"That's right, you're not at Vesuvius anymore, huh?"

"No- got a better offer," Blake said shortly and was hunting for a way to change the subject. Dice swung on his arm a bit.

"Private security. He can't get into details." The edge of bitterness was a lot more obvious then, but she managed to let it slide, draining the last of her beer. Blake pounced on the opportunity.

"Hey, I'll grab us some more drinks," he said, giving her a small squeeze and causing her to burp. Bert quickly drained the black can he held as to not miss out.

"Bourbon and coke, thanks Mongrel," he said with a grin; Blake just waved over his shoulder as he headed inside.

Ordinarily, Blake would have quietly enjoyed these parties; he found it easy to enjoy himself wherever Maggie was and it was good finally catching up to old friends. But in that moment he was just drained, thinking an early night in bed with Maggie would have been the best cure.

It had been a month since the garage was attacked. For the first week, Pitbull had been off recovering from his wound which meant all three of them had to increase their hours. Tasha had helped out by getting more Saints on general watch around the building and generally being more cautious, but still, work was work. And even when Pitbull had determinedly come back, his hours were still a little shorter, and shifts unpredictable.

This was a problem for Blake, who'd intentionally been trying to only watch the Boss during late afternoons and night times, for reasons of his own.

Having fought his way to the kitchen he hunted in the fridge for two brews and the bourbon when someone heavy bumped into him, nearly causing the door to slam on his face.

"Hey, watch it asshole!" the culprit slurred - Blake turned on him lithely, two beers in hand, his eyebrows shooting up in some surprise at who it was.

Cassius blinked back at Blake with the same mixture of surprise, soon turning into a look of disgust. He was swaying on the spot, a large bottle of rum in one hand, with barely a third left swishing in the bottom of it. He was hardly dressed for the cool night, too; tight black jeans and a worn black wife beater, perhaps to better show off his tattoos. Cassius tried to straighten himself, sneering as he leant on the counter, glaring at Blake.

"Wellll wellll…" he murmured, "Look what the cat dragged in and pissed all over."

Blake felt something in his jaw twitch; he barely knew Cassius, other than the few times they'd run in to one another during the trials. He hadn't thought much of the man then, and even less now.

"Cass," he said with a nod, deciding to leave it at that and go. But a hand slammed on the fridge door, Cassius' heavily tattooed arm blocking his path.

"Hey, c'mon mutt, it's been a while," he said darkly, "Not since we cleared all them pimps out of New Colvin. Now you… _you_ must have done a pretty good job there. You get a good body count, that it? A lotta dead pimps to stack up before that bitch?"

Blake didn't respond; Cassius got angrier.

"So what's it like, hn? Doin' that bitch's secret mission? What's she got you doin'?"

"Nothing. I didn't pass either."

"Fuck you asshole. I'm not stupid." Cassius took a long drink from his bottle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Heard the fat one already got laid out," he continued, "Guess he wasn't such great choice after all. Guess they dropped the ball with that one."

"I wouldn't know," Blake said coldly. He wasn't too interested in starting anything with Cassius; the guy was wrecked, after all, and jealous. But he was also talking. Something that had Blake _very_ concerned.

Cassius' glare got hateful then. His words were starting to slur together, "There you go, insulting my intelligence again. You know I'm the smartest of you? An'the best soldier...? _You know how many people I killed…?_" his voice was dropping to a drunken whisper, "I'd take _Gat_ any day and win. I'd take him on then fuck his bitch. Then she'd be sorry."

_Taking 'bitter' to a whole new level,_ Blake thought sourly. It occurred to him though, with Cassius' knowledge and the mighty chip on his shoulder, the man could truly be a problem for them.

"Take a walk, Cass." With that Blake pushed the other man's arm out of the way and went to continue; but that was more than enough provocation for Cassius, who fast shoved Blake from behind.

"Runnin' away, huh? I scare you?" Cassius hissed. They were getting more than a few looks now, spurring him on. "You know they never did finish seeing who was the best. I'm gonna prove it, you pussy-ass, and when I do maybe I'll fuck _your_ bitch t-"

_CRACK!_

Cassius never managed to quite finish the insult. He went limp and rag dolled when Blake's heavy fist slammed right into his cheek, crumpling to the floor, the bottle shattering on the tile and spilling dark rum about them. Blake strode over with thunder in his now grey eyes; he reached down and hoisted Cassius up.

"You even _think_ her name again-" he started, when Cass' head lurched forward and slammed Blake between the eyes. White hot pain flashed and blinded him and he dropped the other man.

Drunk or not, Cassius had been recruited for the trials for a reason. And he'd gotten as far as he had for a reason. The man was stronger than he looked, and a ruthless fighter; he slammed into Blake, tackling him straight into the next room and crashing onto the floor.

"_FIIIGHT!" _someone bellowed, and the house erupted, a circle of Saints closing in and chanting, cheering and screaming at the pair as they struggled to their feet.

Blake drew on his training, shook the cobwebs of alcohol from his eyes and focused. But fighting Cassius was like taking on a feral cat. Or, judging by his size and strength, a mountain lion. Punches flew and when they were close enough they grappled; it wasn't till Blake felt cold, steely fingers tight on his throat he realised Cassius probably had every intention of not just winning the fight, but killing him. He was drunk, he was psychotic, and thought he had nothing left to lose but the remains of his pride.

Blake twisted the man's arm to free himself, slamming an uppercut into Cassius' stomach till he gagged, a splatter of rum vomiting from his mouth. Blake made a cringe and an obvious groan, hot bile racing up his own throat in sympathy as he tried to crush the sensation. _Vomiting_; he could handle so much, but _vomiting_…

Cass' hand reached out for an empty beer bottle, breaking it hard on the ground before swiping it at his enemy. Blake dodged out of the way, broken shards of glass swiping at his shirt and slicing his skin; not deep enough to do any real damage but more than enough to draw blood.

Some of the Saints in the crowd began to call for them to break it up then, but when someone tentatively tried Cassius threw them off; then one furious, ferocious shriek ripped through the crowd.

"_DIIIE!_" Dice screamed in her shocking high pitched battle cry, the little mouse leaping into the fray. In an instant she had pounced onto Cassius' back, a wiry arm around his neck and Baby swinging above, clubbing him down on the head, blow after blow. Seizing the moment Blake sprung forward and wrenched the broken bottle from Cassius' hand, the tattooed man finally crumpling, knocked unconscious. Dice flopped off his back, landing on her butt and giving Cassius' unconscious body a filthy look.

"That's what you get, dick-breath!" she snapped, Saints still roaring with either cheers or jeers, depending on whoever they had been rooting for. Breathing only a little heavier, Blake straightened himself and lifted Dice to her feet.

"My hero?" he murmured quietly into her ear. She wrapped her arms around his waist, slipping her hands into the back pockets of his jeans.

"Baby, you're really bleeding," she said when she properly looked up at his face. It was true, Blake could taste the blood running from his nose and onto his mouth; gingerly he touched the bridge, hoping it wasn't broken.

"I'm alright, Maggie. He got worse."

Some people were slapping him on the back, another handing him a beer while Cassius was being dragged off to a bedroom. Bert had wrestled his way through the thick crowd.

"_Je-_sus! I can't take you anywhere," he laughed, though his smile faltered when he saw Cassius dragged away, "Shit, what's your beef with Cass? That guy's a fuckin' nut."

Blake frowned, forcing a shrug.

"I guess he was just looking for a fight."

"Well, fuck me he got one. And uh, nice save there, squirt," he teased Dice, who just grinned and cuddled closer into Blake.

"Yep! But… I think I better take him home. Get that pretty face cleaned up." She finished with a cheeky wink to Blake. He resisted the urge to kiss her lest he smear blood all over her face.

"Sounds like a plan," he said gently, settling for pushing a golden lock of hair from her face. Arm around her they made their goodbyes brief as they headed for the door.

Blake spared one more look over his shoulder to the bedroom Cassius was taken, unease growing again. _That man was going to be a problem._

* * *

Blake left early that morning for his shift, leaving a kiss on Dice's forehead and a large glass of water by the bed. His own head was pounding, and his nose, while not broken was badly bruised; sunglasses did little to cover it up.

He arrived at the HQ armed with several takeaway coffees, even though people were only just starting to stir. Tasha of course was still awake; Blake crossed paths with Dingo as the shift switched, handing him the usual black coffee with six sweeteners. Nearly asleep Dingo could barely grunt his thanks before heading home. When he handed Tasha her soy latte though, she froze, staring at him.

"What in God's name happened to _you_?" she scolded. His face pulled into a grimace.

"I uh, ran into Cassius last night."

Tasha started, "_He _did that?"

"He came off worse."

"Why? What happened?" Tasha pressed. Blake regaled the story to her, watching her frown deepen with every sentence. By the end of it she still hadn't touched her coffee, instead nibbling at her thumb nail.

"…We should tell the Boss. He's a threat," she decided. Blake only nodded; he assumed that would be the case.

"Where are they?"

"Morning workout," Tasha replied, instantly crossing the penthouse to the gym. What they saw alarmed them though; they hadn't heard much over the music thudding from the stereo.

The Boss was leaning on the bars of the treadmill, feet either side of the still-running belt to steady herself. She looked white as snow, her breathing heavy. Gat had gone to her aid, switching the machine off and putting an arm around her. Tasha rushed to help.

"This… is… _bullshit_," the Boss huffed weakly, letting herself be settled on the floor. She didn't seem sweaty or overworked, just exhausted.

"Take it easy," Gat said, rubbing her back. Blake had mind to bring over a bottle of water - she only took a small drink before leaning forward, her head drooping as she took deep breaths.

"I can't even run a mile…" she murmured. No one answered her right away; no one was certain if it was normal. Eventually a little colour started coming back to her cheeks, and she finally lifted her head, putting a hand over Gat's.

"I'm ok," she said with a nod, finally properly aware of Tasha and Blake. She frowned at him, seeing the purple bruise that had bloomed over the centre of his face.

"The fuck happened to you?" Gat asked. Blake's shoulders drooped a little.

"Ran into Cassius last night."

"Shit. You win?"

"Yeah."

"Good," the Boss joined, slowly nodding, "How'd it start?"

Blake took a moment, unsure of how he wanted to explain it to them; he was aware of how dangerous these people were.

"He was angry about not getting the job," he decided, "Guess he wanted to prove something."

"Boss, I'm worried he could cause us problems," Tasha said frankly, "He knows a lot, and he's got a grudge."

"What do you suggest?" Gat asked lightly. She shrugged in turn.

"…Maybe he's removed from Steelport? Give him a job somewhere else."

The Boss glanced to Gat and was nodding thoughtfully, musing aloud, "Hm. I'd hate to lose him. The man has talent."

Blake frowned, "It's…"

"What? Full disclosure Mongrel, if you think he's a problem you gotta tell us everything."

"He's angry at you. Things he was saying-"

"You question how loyal he is to me?" She asked, her voice getting a little quieter. Blake sighed.

"It sounded like he hates you."

"He's angry, his pride is wounded… I want specifics. What did he say?" She pressed. when she saw how reluctant Blake was to tell ehr every detail she rolled her eyes, "I'm not a cop, I'm your Boss. 'Snitches get stitches' doesn't apply here."

"...He referred to you as 'bitch'. Rambled that he could win in a fight against Gat and when he did he'd… 'fuck his bitch'."

"Yo, gimme a time an' place…" Gat growled, and almost grinned at the challenge, if not for the insult thrown in after. He audibly cracked his knuckles. But the air had stilled and there was a very clear shift. The Boss' face became very still, almost tranquil. When she spoke her voice was quiet and cool.

"Arrogant… And those were _his_ words?"

Blake nodded mutely. He could see the Boss' whole demeanour shift at that information. She was considering a totally different approach now, and the look in her eyes made Blake uneasy. Could her opinion really be changed just by hearing an insult?

"Listen, I know he doesn't like you, but-"

"I've worked with plenty of people who didn't like me. I still do. In fact, I've got one of them working as my bodyguard." She gave him a lengthy and obvious stare then, "But it _can_ still work, so long as I know that somehow they respect me, or fear me, or have some other motivation I can trust."

The words sent a soft chill up Mongrel's spine. He knew in a roundabout way she was talking about him, too. Reminding him of something; that she was in control.

"And there's the problem with Cassius. I mean he's useful, that's for sure. Like I said, talented…" She didn't finish the sentence but she didn't have to. Blake knew he'd made her doubt her control over the man, and he realised with a twist in his stomach, it might have been enough to sign Cass' death warrant. And of course there was the matter of ego; would she really be willing to let his comments slide?

She wore a dark frown over her face; Blake considered how eerie it was seeing an expression so cold and murderous on her. Of course, she'd had the same look many times before but it didn't sit right now. Her features had started to soften, along with her body; in truth she'd never looked lovelier, even with the soft bulge under her naval but that was easily covered.

"I need to think on this," she said coolly. Blake and Tasha exchanged glances as she clumsily got to her feet, ignoring offers of help. Gat rubbed her back before heading upstairs to grab a shower, and the Boss headed outside, Trouble greeting her and eagerly rubbing on her legs.

Alone now she made her way to sit down on the steps, picking up a red kickball at her feet and bouncing it into the pool; Trouble leapt after it, landing with a mighty splash into the water and paddling after the toy. She allowed herself to smile as she watched him, then pulled out her phone, turning it in her hands.

To kill him, or not to kill him?

If she decided yes, no doubt Gat would be happy to take care of it. He'd enjoy the challenge. Shaundi would probably agree it was the best thing to do, Pierce, maybe not. But Cassius had never given her a reason for concern before.

Trouble padded out of the pool, the kickball in his wide mouth. She wrestled it free of him.

"Icing someone for being drunk and butthurt seems like a bit much, huh?" she asked the tiger. Trouble licked his nose, pawing at her till she threw the kickball into the water again.

What she needed for him was a good assassination contract. Maybe something on the other side of the country, to get him out of Steelport. Something dangerous, and if he didn't survive, well… Of course nothing sprung to mind immediately, so she'd need to think of another job to keep him occupied.

"Interrogation?" she mused aloud. Cassius had a solid sadistic streak in him, he'd be good at that. She swiped her phone on, scrolling through emails till she got to the one from Shaundi, a map attached. Some drug houses in Steelport not run by the Saints.

Shaundi had brought a particular place to her attention a few days ago. It hadn't been easy to track down, not many of the Saints knew about it, so information had to be garnered from a chain of drug addicts. Either way, some of the corpses had been recognised coming from this particular crack den. The cook who ran the place had gone missing but the house was still running.

Usually it wouldn't bother them, but the cook in question wasn't one of theirs. It was worth looking into, at least.

The Boss scrolled through the numbers till she came to Cass'. Considering a moment he was probably still unconscious from the night before she instead sent him a message.

_"Task for you. Call at 6pm."_

Trouble wandered over again, nudging her leg with the wet kickball, and she scratched him behind the ears.

"Here's hoping he does this right," she said, giving the cat another scratch and throwing the ball again.

It was some time later before the Boss headed back inside, Trouble sunning himself to dry off. She couldn't miss the expectant looks from Tasha and Mongrel.

"_He lives,_" she said sarcastically, the two nodding. Tasha didn't look happy about it.

"Boss, you still want me to keep an eye on him?" she asked with a scowl. The woman shrugged.

"Sure couldn't hurt. If he's a real problem I'll feed him to Trouble. Poor kitten's b- _Ow!_ _Shit!_" She grunted suddenly, a hand to her belly. Tasha and Mongrel froze, on edge.

"What is it?" Tasha ventured. The Boss paused, her expression distant, like someone straining to hear something.

"Fuck…" she murmured.

"_What?_"

She jolted again, her wide eyed shock starting to melt into a bemused smile, "It kicked," she said quietly, "Holy shit, this is… this is creepy." There was a smile of wonderment on her face, a hand low on her abdomen.

"Are… you serious?" Blake had to shake his head, the rapid change in her demeanour throwing him. She rolled him a briefly sarcastic look.

"No, Mongrel, I'm rehearsing for the real thing." She pulled her hands away to look down, giving a shocked yelp at the visible nudge when it happened again, "Argh! I saw it!" she looked about wildly, up the stairs to where Gat had disappeared, "Johnny!"

"_What?_" his voice echoed down and she just yelled back, telling him to come back downstairs. He was just tugging a shirt over his head as he started down the staircase, his worry betrayed in the quickness of his steps.

"What, what's wrong?"

"It's kicking!" The Boss looked bright, amazed, though Gat's expression was blank. He slowed on the stairs as she stood at the bottom.

"…What?"

The Boss reached out and took his hand, not missing a beat as she pressed his palm to a space just below her navel. There was a pause, then she twitched and he jolted back sharply.

"Whoah fuck-"

She chuckled at his reaction, amazed at the sensation, "I know, it's creepy, huh?" she said, though it was with a smile, "Shit, I gotta call Shaundi and Pierce." As the Boss paced off, busy fiddling on her phone, Blake spared one look to the suspiciously silent Johnny Gat.

The man looked terrified.


	11. The Ides of November

**Seems I'm starting to pick up the pace! One thing I noticed with this story is how many loose ends needed tying off from the previous fiction... not to mention the massive influx of OC's, sub plots... good news is, the next chapter should be up very soon (and I'm a little nervous about it).**

* * *

The Ides of November

Cassius had been inspecting at least two crack houses a week since the Boss contacted him.

It wasn't a particularly fulfilling or challenging task, but he got to work alone, and no one was there to question his methods. Walk in. Find the cook. Interrogate.

It was the 'interrogate' part he enjoyed. He liked assuming they always knew more than they let on; often that wasn't the case, but it allowed him to get creative. Once he was done, one of the Saints cooks then moved in and set up shop.

Privately he hated everything else about it, because it was still the bidding of the Boss. He didn't doubt Mongrel had told her what went down that night; not that he could remember much, drunk as he was. But Blake had obviously said something incriminating, and now he was being given this job to keep him out of trouble. _That_ thought gave him comfort, that he worried her. He just had to be sensible for now. Too much attention and he'd find a knife in his chest.

Cassius halted in the long grass, alongside the chain link fence of the next house. An old Californian bungalow, worn, cracked, boarded up. Flipping his sunglasses down his eyes and drawing his gun, he slipped through the hole in the fence, creeping his way to the door, where he halted.

A thick stench crept into his nostrils.

He recognised it; the scent of death and decay. He slung the lightweight pack from his shoulders, a pack mostly containing a few useful supplies. Rope, cable ties, lighter, an assortment of knives and… other implements. Drawing out a face mask he strapped it on; if one of the labs had gone bust, only a minute of the fumes could kill him, too. He wasn't taking that chance. Mask securely on he shoved his shoulder against the door, slinking inside.

It was silent in the house, eerily so. He looked from room to room; one had a couple curled on a couch together, dazed and vacant, lines of saliva running from the corners of their mouths; they barely blinked at his intrusion. The next had a girl laying on a rotten mattress on the floor, eyes open, seemingly in a stupor with chunks of vomit splattered about her mouth. He saw then her chest didn't rise and fall like it should have, had she been alive. But this corpse was fresh, perhaps only a few hours old. Not enough to stink.

He strained his ears to listen; no other movements in the house. A place this big should have had far more people… he stalked silently back to the room with the couple, even smacking one of them on the face to try and get a response but it was only a low, gassy moan that left them.

"Brain dead…" he muttered, voice obscured through the mask. There was no one else there; he let go of stealth and began looking through the rest of the building. A filthy bathroom. A gutted kitchen. When he came to the stairs he decided to try the basement first; that was where most cooks set up their labs.

It was also where the smell was getting stronger, leaking even now through the mask.

Cassius was on edge, slinking silently down the darkened steps, feeling along the wall for a light switch. Eventually he gave up, pulling a flashlight from the side pouch of his pack. Ever prepared.

The basement was dank and dusty, the concrete layering the bottom broken up in places and the earth disturbed as if someone had been trying to dig there. Still the smell got stronger, and stronger, till he was sure he could feel the stench of decay pressing in on all sides. The flashlight swung, throwing pools of cold light around but not landing on a single corpse.

But there _were_ barrels. Barrels half buried in the earth. He moved slowly towards one, hand tracing the top and finding the metal lever, pulling it loose. It cracked open slowly, strands of red slime dangling and clinging as he pried the lid away.

Even Cassius paused at the sight, turning away. Thick, red liquid filled the barrel, chunks and lumps floating through it. Bits of bone and rotting lumps of flesh that might have been limbs, all slowly dissolving in the acid into one vile, slimy soup. Feeling his heart picking up pace he slid the lid back on, clamping it down tight and turning the flashlight about the basement again.

Barrel, after barrel… he counted eighteen in total.

"Well, well…" he murmured, amused at his find, "This just got interesting."

Above his head then he heard the front door crack open again and footsteps thudded over the floorboards. He instinctively crouched and shut off the flashlight, glaring catlike to the wooden floorboards above. Voices. Clear, conscious, and foreign. French? It was hard to tell, they were muffled so.

The footsteps were retreating, higher and higher, up the stairs. This was where any sane person would make their escape; Cassius was no sane person. He knew whoever just arrived, those were the people he needed to 'talk' to. Re-gripping his gun, he started back up the stairs and into the house, keeping low and quiet, slinking carefully up the next flight to the second floor. Voices became clearer again as he reached the top, edging slowly down the hallway to the room with the door ajar.

_Definitely French, _ he considered, pausing just outside, back to the wall. A man and a woman, not young, and in a heated discussion. He heard footsteps striding towards him, the door opening fully, a woman stepping out of the room-

His hand flung out before she could even see him, the hard crack of his pistol on her face echoing down the hall. As she shrieked he grabbed her and pulled her toward him, a human shield, his arm tight around her throat and his gun now aiming into the room, where another man had shouted and thrown up his hands.

"Please! Stop! We're unarmed!" Max gasped. Cassius' finger stroked the trigger of his weapon, Nannette weakly struggling against him.

"Lucky me," Cassius purred, walking his hostage with slow steps into the room. Max swallowed hard.

"Just… let her go. There's nothing we can do against you, please," Max tried. Cassius regarded him thoughtfully, his pale eyes starting to take in the room they were in. It was suspiciously clean, the walls lined with work stations, machinery. On one table was a tray holding syringes full of a strange, slightly green liquid. The most curious sight of all was the table in the very centre, a young, pale man strapped down to it, tubes running out of him and leading to fluid bags hanging above his head. Cassius grinned.

"This day just keeps getting better," he chuckled, curiosity piqued. In a sudden move he shoved Nannette, throwing her at Max and the pair stumbled back together as he caught her. Cassius pointed his gun at them as he pulled off his gas mask.

"Sit."

They glanced about for a stool or chair and obviously didn't move fast enough. Cassius advanced on them, roaring;

"SIT DOWN!"

They did. Nannette fumbled awkwardly onto a stool, Max into an office chair that threatened to break under him. Cassius closed the door behind him with an audible click, glaring icily at couple.

"Anyone else coming?"

They shook their heads. Cassius nodded, giving his gun a twirl and smirking as he looked about the room.

"Gotta say… _you two_… you two really made my day, you know that?" He chuckled, "The barrels downstairs, that your work? Which one of you two did that…? Neither? Both…? Both. Now, I was sent around here to ask about something that went down _way_ over the other side of town. Garage got blown up some weeks ago, you two heard about that?"

The exchanged looks that gave the game away. Cassius grinned.

"You _do?_ That's… that's great, really." He gave a small laugh, grinning at the body on the table, "Phew this must be a good."

"Are you working for the Saints?" Nannette asked icily. Cassius raised an eyebrow at her.

"I am… so, clearly, you know it was a Saints garage you blew up, hm? Which one of you did that?" he looked from one to the other, then jumped up to sit on one of the benches opposite them. The two scientists slowly exchanged another look.

"Come on now, don't be coy. It was an impressive fireball."

Max looked down, tentatively raising his hand. Cassius nodded slowly, turning the gun on him.

"And you sent those junkies in afterwards?"

"Yes."

"Why? No, don't look at _her_, look at me," Cassius growled, snapping his fingers. Max swallowed carefully.

"…To distract them," he eventually chose and Cassius shook his head.

"No, no no, come on. You took way too long to answer that, it's bullshit."

"It was to draw her out," Nannette admitted flatly, giving Cassius a level glare, "Your Boss. We wanted a chance to observe her first hand."

Cassius tilted his head. "So you sent a bunch of junkies to the slaughter for the sake of observations?" he raised an eyebrow, then nodded, "Not bad."

Nannette simply glared at him, clearly not finding his approval flattering. Soon Cassius stood, walking around the table that held the unconscious young man. He studied it, appearing deep in thought.

"…So what's _this_?" he asked. Inspired by Nannette's bravery Max lifted his chin.

"It's a new drug. It just needs testing."

"_Testing_… I take it the barrels downstairs, those were other _tests?_"

Nod.

Cassius glared at them, "People always assuming I'm stupid. It's not a drug, not a recreational one at least. If you're testing recreational drugs you drop it at a rave and see what happens."

"Astute," the woman spoke up softly, "We are not just some sad little drug dealers. We are working on something far greater."

"Nannette-" Max warned but she shook her head at him:

"If we bluff and say nonsense, like it's some pathetic rival drug ring he's going to shoot us anyway." She turned back to Cassius, "It's a weapon. A modification of the toxin that infected Arapice Island."

"…And what are you going to do with that?"

Nannette seemed to take a shaky breath before answering; "…Gain control of the city."

Cassius burst out with laughter, a heavy sound that seemed to shake the air. He was still chuckling and gasping for a breath, wagging his gun at her, "You. I like you…"

His chuckles slowly died, and there was a long quiet in the room after that, where Cassius and Nannette seemed to stare each other off. He was weighing something in his mind, drumming fingers onto the steel tabletop the body was strapped down on. The suffocating moment stretched, and he began slowly walking over to her, crouching so he was closer to her level.

"You wouldn't have attacked the Boss if you weren't thinking of bringing the Saints down."

She didn't answer. Cassius rubbed the stubble over his chin.

"…You really think your weapon could beat her?" he asked.

She nodded.

"She's tough," he warned, "Cockroaches die easier."

"I have it on very good authority that given a few months, her ability to fight will be somewhat compromised," Nannette said coolly. Cassius was quiet again, fingers scratching his chin again. Eventually, he spoke, his voice low and dangerous.

"…I'm not going to kill you," he said thoughtfully.

"And why is that?" she asked, despite a stern look from Max. Cassius smiled.

"Because then I'd never find out what happens. Besides; I like to be on the winning team."

'_If he kills us now, he's still on the winning team,'_ Max considered, then spoke up, "You must have something against her."

Cassius only shrugged, but there was a flash in his eyes giving away the truth. He turned from them, going back to inspect the body. As he did, Nannette glanced to the tray on the bench top.

"So is this one a success or a failure?" Cassius asked, picking up the body's wrist and dropping it again. "It's got a pulse, which I guess is something. I think it's even breathing. Is that meant to happen? Because I have to tell you, zombies a-"

He barely heard the tiny clatter of the stool, turning in time to see Nannette stabbing the syringe into his neck and pressing down. He shouted and swung his arm, throwing her to the ground and ripped the needle out-

But it was already half empty. He could feel his mind becoming fuzzy, his hearing was no longer sharp, his body becoming light. A hand to his neck, he dropped to his knees, rasping.

"You fucking old _cunt! What…_ wh…"

With that, he keeled over and slumped against the table, blinking slowly and letting go of a long breath. Max was helping Nannette up and holding her closely.

"_Oh, I thought he'd _never_ shut up,_" she snapped, blowing a lock of silver hair from her eyes. Max chuckled.

"_Nicely done, dear…_" Max replied with great admiration,_ "You think he'll survive?_"

"_It was very diluted, and he only had a half dosage._" She walked over to where Cassius was swaying, speaking once again in English; "So. We've told you everything… _now_ we need some information from _you_. You'll tell us, who are the Saints lieutenants, where do they go, what do they do?"

A line of drool running from the corner of his mouth, Cassius slowly nodded.

* * *

"Hit me…"

"Seventeen."

"Hit me…"

"Twenty!"

"Hit me…"

"_Boss!_"

"Er… twenty eight, bust…"

"Hit me…"

"Hey, pay attention!" Shaundi was snapping her fingers in front of the Boss' glazed eyes, the Dealer looking back and forth between the women uncomfortably.

"Er, miss, are you alright?" He asked and the Boss wiped a sleepy eye, focusing on the game.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm good." She hugged her oversized jacket around her a little tighter, looking down at her chips and cards. The noise and flash of Three Count was playing hell with her brain and exhausted as she was, her game was a _little_ off. Shaundi sighed.

"A few too many cranberry vodkas," she mentioned, for the sake of the dealer - not that there was any vodka in what the Boss was drinking. She took her friend's arm, "C'mon. Give up the seat before I wipe you out."

"Eh, sounds good," the Boss muttered, the two getting up and weaving their way through the thick Saturday night crowd; at a close enough distance, Tasha and Pitbull followed on dutifully.

Fortunately there was always the private VIP area by the bar they could slip into, currently holding only a handful of local celebrities; they managed to snag a fairly private booth, bodyguards slipping into the neighbouring booth.

The Boss frowned when she checked her phone.

"Cassius was supposed to check in…" she murmured, scrolling through messages, "That was days ago."

"You think he found trouble?" Shaundi asked, holding her glass up to the bar tender to signal a new drink.

"Maybe… He was pretty good about reporting back on time."

Shaundi put her hand out, "Okay, phone down. We can take care of it tomorrow; they guy's a hard ass, he can handle himself."

"That's what I'm worried about…"

"What do you mean?"

"Hm." The Boss drummed her nails on the tabletop, "I think I made a mistake in trusting him."

Shaundi narrowed her eyes, "…Seriously hon, are you feeling okay?"

"Why…? I look like shit, don't I?" her shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh; usually her looks had never concerned her, but for the past few weeks her ego had been collecting bruises.

"What? No!" Shaundi had to pause as the bartender dropped off her martini; she nodded her thanks, waiting till he was out of earshot before continuing. "C'mon, what's up? You were bouncing off the walls during the match."

"I'm _frustrated_. And I would shank someone for a glass of wine right now." The Boss snarled, then slumped her forehead onto her palm, "I'm just over it, being tired all the time, being sick all the time, getting a fat ass and never being able to concentrate on anything, and Johnny is always off doing _something_ now."

"Yeah, what's up with that?" Shaundi asked, the thought occurring to her too, "I haven't seen him much either."

"Hell if I know…" but there was a twinge of hurt and frustration in her words, "Maybe it's just a phase?"

"You talked to him about it?"

The Boss shrugged, lips twisting, "I will if he keeps it up."

Shaundi regarded her old friend a long moment; the Boss' awkward brush of her hair or shifting in her clothes didn't go unnoticed. She reached over.

"Sweetie," she reassured, "You're beautiful."

Never having been good at taking compliments of that nature the Boss shrugged it off, sarcastically fanning herself, "Go on," she encouraged and her friend blinking when a thought occurred.

"You better not be thinking that's why Johnny hasn't been around," she warned kindly; the Boss glanced away.

"I- uhm… No?"

"See I always thought he _liked_ a girl with a big butt."

"Jesus Shaundi, how many of those cocktails have you had?"

Shaundi regarded her old friend for a long moment, a small smile flickering on her lips; she slid the martini over to her. The Boss glanced down at it with raised eyebrows.

"One sip, it won't kill you. Hell it might get you through the next five months."

Her shoulders shook with a quiet laugh, lifting the glass and chuckling, "Asshole. Now I've got 'Baby Got Back' stuck in my head." Taking a breath she treated herself to a mouthful of the clear drink. She actually closed her eyes a moment, savouring the sensation, then letting go of a long sigh.

"_Damn_ that's smooth… Shaundi, you are a true friend."

"I'll always be here to encourage your bad habits," Shaundi replied sarcastically. The Boss glanced around, blinking at the absence of a particular famous face.

"You know, I thought Birk would be here tonight," she murmured, causing Shaundi to cringe.

"Yeah, I didn't tell him I was coming."

"Oh…?" She tilted her head at Shaundi, "What's going on with you two?"

Shaundi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, frowning into her martini, "I have no idea what's going on with Birk. I mean, there are times when he actually seems like a legitimately nice guy, and then he's all Hollywood Asshole again, and if he's not that, then he's Nyte Blayde. Seriously, I think there's something wrong in his head."

"_Yes_ there's something wrong in his head, _have you met him?_" The Boss teased, drawing a laugh from Shaundi. "Maybe he's just happier living in a false reality."

"Yeah, well…" Shaundi shrugged, "I dunno what to do."

"Accept the fact he's the three-faced moron who'd lick your shoes if you asked him to? The romance novel writes itself."

"Oh yeah, _The Three Headed Dog, A Love Story._" Shaundi was smiling though when she sipped her drink, adding pensively, "I should never have started something with him in the first place…"

"But do you like him?"

"Hm. One of him."

The Boss hissed, "Yeahhh, when you only like one third of a person, I don't know that it can be called a solid relationship."

Shaundi nodded, her best 'whaddya-gonna-do?' face on, "Breaking up… again." She narrowed her eyes at her friend, "How did _you_ manage to get everything sorted?"

The Boss smirked, patting her belly, "Entrapment."

The two women laughed, falling back into familial conversation as the minutes inched towards midnight; the Boss had been considering a move back to Stilwater for some time, though the catastrophe with the Daedalus had put those plans to bed for a while. They weighed the options of leaving Steelport, not coming to much of a conclusion, simply enjoying each other's company.

But the silence from both Cassius and Gat still weighed on the Boss' mind, and as the clock ticked over she checked her phone again.

"Hon, I'm thinking I better call it a night… got some stuff I wanna take care of tomorrow," she said thoughtfully; onto her third martini Shaundi protested a little, but eventually gave in. When the Boss got up from the booth she could feel the discomfort in movement, steadily worsening by the day. She had no idea what to do when jackets and overcoats could no longer hide her, or what she was going to do when she could no longer run or fight. Months of being a prisoner of her own body…

'_Tomorrow might be my last chance to tackle something myself… for a very long time…_' She pondered on that almost with resentment; then a nudge from within her made her smile.


	12. Responsibility

Responsibility

Dingo's phone buzzed in his hand; leaning on the barstool he checked the message, from Pitbull:

_'Poor Boss. She's real down. You seen Gat?'_

Dingo cracked a half grin; his friend had been quietly doting on the woman a little more, ever since she began showing. He lazily threw a dart in his match against Pierce, missing the board, his free hand thumbing a message back.

_'At the shilayla. She be right by tomoro?'_

"Yo, pay attention!" Pierce chided, neatly lining up his own darts and throwing; a near bullseye. Dingo's phone buzzed soon after.

_' *Shillelagh. Maybe. Seeing Bear at the zoo tomorrow afternoon, you want to go when your shift is over?'_

Dingo's grin widened as he shook his head to himself.

_'Riot. See you at the swap over.'_

Looking about he saw just how spectacularly he'd lost to Pierce, clapping him on the back and handing over the bet of one hundred dollars; incredibly modest by Pierce's standards.

"You ready for round two?" Pierce grinned.

"Mate, I might be an idiot but I'm not stupid," Dingo replied. From the corner of his eye he spied someone over at the bar, Pitbull's message weighing on his mind a little more heavily. He nodded to a few other Saints and barflies milling around.

"I reckon Moe will take ya. And actually give ya a run for ya money this time."

Leaving Pierce to his game, Dingo picked up his beer and wandered to the bar, dropping down onto the barstool next to Gat.

"Go home and fuck your missus," he greeted flatly, taking a swig of beer. Johnny Gat paused, his whiskey half way to an open mouth, murder growing in his eyes as he slowly turned to stare incredulously at Dingo.

"…The _fuck_ you just say to me?"

Reeling himself in, Dingo edged away slightly. "Look, it's…" he checked his phone, "Two am, you got a beautiful girl at home waiting for you."

"Listen Steve Irwin, I don't recall asking for your opinion," Gat growled, slamming down the drink. Dingo peered at him; there was a wobbling slur in the other man's words, and a slight sway in his movements, eyes far from focused. When Gat reached over the bar for the whiskey bottle and began refilling his glass again his movements were sluggish.

"…How much have you had to drink?" Dingo asked. Gat blinked, lifting the bottle and inspecting it and the small amount of amber liquid that swished in the bottom.

"Yo, that was full…" he mused, setting it down again.

"Fucking _Christ_…" Dingo had to glance at the bartender a short way down, who only raised his eyes and nodded, confirming it. A little uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.

"Sooo what are we celebrating?"

Gat only shrugged. Dingo paused for a while, observing the other man pensively. After a hesitant moment he took out his phone, scrolling through the gallery till he came across a series of photos. He leant over a little, showing the glowing image to Gat who had to blink a few times to get his eyes to focus on it. A picture of a little boy, perhaps only two, with cocoa skin, freckles, mischievous hazel eyes and a wild mane of brown curly hair. He also wore a familiar cheeky grin.

"Didn't ever show you a picture of my boy, aye?" Dingo asked conversationally. Gat only raised his eyebrows, shooting Dingo a droll look. The younger of the two ploughed on regardless.

"He lives with his mum in New Zealand now, her and her new boyfriend. So that's kinda why I fucked off to America."

"That blows. So you don't see the kid," Gat replied flatly; it sounded more like a statement than a question. Dingo's mouth tightened into a frown.

"Not for nearly five years now."

Gat only nodded, taking another drink of his whiskey, clearing the glass again. He then frowned as a thought occurred to him;

"…Wait, how old are you?"

"Twenny'four," Dingo replied, a plan hatching in his mind. He topped up Gat's glass, then reached over to grab one of his own from behind the bar, pouring a splash, "Spare you the math, mate, I was sixteen when I knocked her up. Seventeen when Jordan was born. He'll be eight in March."

"Nice. Now why the fuck do you think I care?"

"Eh, I guess you don't. But he's a cute kid, you gotta give me that much." Dingo was unperturbed, flicking through a few more photos till he ran out. There was a pause as both men took a drink, and Dingo set his phone down. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he added; "I made a lot of mistakes where my family is concerned. Too many. An' I been paying for it ever since."

The gravitas of what Dingo was implying didn't totally escape Johnny; he tapped his glass on the counter before speaking.

"…Hey, you were a kid."

Dingo shrugged, "A mistake's a mistake. And I gotta live with it. Besides that, Ava's nonna cursed me when she found out I got her pregnant."

Gat only gave him a sardonic laugh, making Dingo indignant; "She fuckin' did! She put some old maori curse on me!"

"_Right,_ right."

Dingo petulantly took a sip of whiskey. "I don't blame her though. I mean I was a _dick_ when Ava told me," he continued, "Y'know I said I was too young for that shit, didn't want anything to do with it… tried to convince her to get an abortion. Don't think she ever forgave me for that one. It was actually _my_ dad that gave me a boot up the arse, told me to step up and be a man. Didn't really manage to do that either."

"You know, it's called bar talk, not fifty reasons to euthanise you," Gat growled. Dingo rolled his eyes; he'd been wanting to make a point by laying the story bare, it seemed he'd have to be a little more blunt about it.

"Ray of fuckin' sunshine, you know that mate? Look, I'm just saying' I was… I was worried too." He wanted to say 'scared' but something told him that might earn him a glass to the face, "And I missed out on some really amazing stuff cos of it… I'm missing out on my son's entire life because of it." As he looked down at his phone, the last picture he'd shown Gat faded away into the generic screensaver, and he felt a dark moment of self-realisation. But the implications of Dingo's story were starting to hit at a sore spot with Gat, who suddenly riled up, turning on the younger man.

"You don't fuckin' think that _I_ would walk out on-"

"_Fuck_ no, mate I know you wouldn't!" Dingo quickly placated, taking a moment, "…Just sayin'… two am, you're getting hammered at the pub while she's back home. And she's a good sort. A bit gone in the head, but a good sort."

"…Heh… Yeah, she's something," Gat said, the comment actually bringing a wry smile to his face. Slowly, the mood lightened. After a short silence he finally spoke up, topping up their drinks though he spilt most of the whiskey on the bar top.

"So what happened?" he slurred, though his voice was curiously quiet, "…When the kid was born?"

"…Well, I was there for it." Dingo took a moment, eyes a little distant as he fell back into the memory; the conversation was working out as he'd hoped, so he decided to milk the moment a little.

"And it was… the most disgusting, amazing shit I ever seen. I'm seriously man, it's _dis-gust-ing_. But then you look at the baby, and the doctors are telling you, you got a son, and you see _yourself _in him." He smiled sadly, "Man, he was beautiful. I knew I wanted to start trying then. Course I had already well and truly fucked everything up with Ava by that point, so I didn't get to see him as much as I wanted…" he took a drink, "Then she hooked up with that meat-head she calls a boyfriend. A few years later and they fuck off to New Zealand… wasn't much left for me back home so I decided to go on a trip around America. Then I landed in Stilwater and Jen came along, thought I could do that right. But uh, that's… that's a whole other thing." He quickly drained his drink again; he hadn't intended to talk about Jen, and chased the whiskey with the last of his beer. Gat was frowning.

"Why Stilwater?" he asked as if it were the most obvious question in the world, "I mean it's home but even _I_ know it's a shithole."

"Eeeeehhhh…" Dingo scratched at his dreadlocks, suddenly grinning with embarrassment, "…I was an Aisha fan. An' she was always singing about the Row, and Stilwater, and I just wanted to see the city."

"Fuckin' A…"

The two fell into quiet. Gat went to top up his glass, puzzled when no more whiskey filled the tumbler. He clumsily inspected the bottle, frowning at his discovery; the bottle was empty. He knocked it on the counter to get the attention of the bartender.

"Yo!" he called out, waving the bottle at him. If it was anyone else, they would have been cut off ten drinks ago. The bartender of course, knew better than that. A moment later and he set down two beers before the men, a glass of water next to Johnny's. Looking at the water archly, Johnny lazily nudged at it, then tipped it over like a petulant cat. He started on the beer, oblivious to the worried frown Dingo cast him.

"Sooo… what's goin' on man?" Dingo finally broached quietly, "You were pretty upbeat till a couple'a weeks ago."

In truth, Dingo could pinpoint the turn in Gat's attitude. He could remember showing up for his shift, the Boss' smile casting sunlight when she told him the baby had kicked for the first time. But Gat had been quiet and distant.

When he spoke now, it was with difficulty. He had to slow down, carefully remembering what words he was supposed to use and doing everything in his power to not slur them.

"So… you said you were a- that you like Eesh's music?" he asked. Dingo sighed, nodding. Gat continued; "Eesh used to write almost all her songs in the middle of the night, y'know that? All the good ones."

"I guess you'd know, huh?"

Johnny nodded slowly, nursing the bottle of beer. It seemed for a moment he wasn't going to elaborate; finally he shared the memory.

"I's goin' downstairs once, an' she was sitting at her piano, middle of the night, no lights on, just goin' by moonlight… Only had a sheet around her. She was just sitting there, hummin', hitting' out notes on the keyboard… And she'd keep going, writing shit down, then outta nowhere, it started turning into a song. I was just sitting there on the couch, listening. No idea how she did it, one minute it's this mess, just noise, the next, she'd finished writing '_Endlessly'_."

"Shit, aye?" Dingo breathed, very still, "I love that song."

Gat nodded slowly. Whatever he was going to say next seemed to have swam out of his mind, taking him to another tangent;

"So you'sever been to the HQ back in Stilwater?"

"Yeah, mate."

"And there's this underground part, where there's this huge long wall covered in graffiti."

Dingo nodded fast, "Yeah, the memorial wall."

"…It has a name now?" Gat was pulling a face, then shook his head, trying to focus on what he'd been saying. "…Most'a that, the big bit in the middle, with the city line, the… Eesh, Carlos and Lin, the sugar skulls? Yeah, well-l- uh-" he paused, having to remind himself not to use her name, "_The Boss_ did all that. I saw her paint it. And it was the same thing, she's just sprain' and swipin' all this colour around, it doesn't look like anything, then… outta nowhere it starts takin' shape. And then there it is, this… painting. I dunno how they do it. I mean I could never make anything."

Dingo slowly took a drink, trying to work out why he was being told any of this and how he was supposed to respond;

"Uhh… they're… y'know they're really talented," he voiced awkwardly.

"But you know, _I_ only ever been good at one thing," Gat said, matter-of-factly. He took a pull of his beer, then pointed it with a wobble at Dingo, something dark crossing his eyes, his voice lowering to a deathly growl;

"_Killing people._ Nothin' I do better than destroying' a life, and aint no one does it better'n me."

"…Mate, I'll drink to that."

The two clinked their bottles together, though Gat almost missed. Dingo watched the other man, sensing they were finally coming to the crux of the situation. He gave Johnny one last nudge.

"…And now you're gonna be a dad," he said quietly. He saw the sadness collapse on him, the slump in Gat's shoulders. The deadliest man in America let his forehead fall into the palm of his hand.

"And how the _fuck_ am I supposed to do that?" he murmured, "You know, it wasn't real before. Then, it kicked and… shit, it's an actual _person_ in there. And that shit aint just for Christmas."

"…You take it a day at a time."

"Yeah, easy to say. I'm gonna fuck that kid up. He's not gonna stand a fuckin' chance, I don't even know what a healthy family is supposed to _look_ like... Fuckin' up lives is all I ever been good at."

Dingo nodded, but a half smile was at his mouth. He looked down at his beer, giving the most reassuring words he could muster.

"…Well hey. You're already better at bein' a dad than me. You're more worried about fuckin' up the kid's life than it fuckin' up yours? So you already love'em… When Ava told me she was pregnant _all_ I could think about was _myself_. And as for a healthy family, that kid's got two parents who'd take bullets for each other."

There was a clatter and a thud next to him. Gat had slumped face forward on the counter, dead to the world, the beer clunking over and draining onto the floor. Dingo sighed, glancing over to Pierce.

"Taxi!"

* * *

The elevator chimed.

"Shh!"

"Yo you shh!"

"I'cn- can walk… geroff…"

The three men stumbled in, Gat being half dragged between Pierce and Dingo, who were both a little unsteady on their own feet.

"Right, ok where… where do we put'im?" Dingo asked.

"Keep yo voice down, don't wake the Boss…" Pierce hissed.

"Nnnghhh… uuurghhh…" Gat said.

Pierce and Dingo exchanged glances, "Couch?"

"Couch."

With that they were stumbling along again, lurching into a sideboard and nearly collapsing when Gat's feet tangled under him. Dingo was snorting and trying not to laugh, Pierce hissing loudly for him to shut up. Finally they made it to the sofa, managing to lurch Gat forward and rag-doll him over the back of it. He landed face-first into the pillows, doing nothing more to make himself comfortable. Pierce and Dingo were both huffing a little.

"Right… ok we didn't break anything?" Dingo breathed, Pierce shaking his head.

"Naw, we're good, just, shh, let's go-"

The light switched on.

They froze, heads snapping around in all directions to find the source, both men turning to stone. The Boss was leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, a mug of tea in her hands, and looking on with an arched expression and lips pursed in silence. She took a slow sip of her tea, never taking her bemused gaze off them.

Dingo cleared his throat.

"Uh, he's just… y'know big night and…"

She turned and disappeared back into the kitchen without a word. The two men glanced to each other with a cringe, on edge when the Boss reappeared.

She carried a large water bottle in one hand, padding quietly over to where Gat was just passed out on the sofa. Silently, she took off his glasses and shoes, setting the bottle of water by him. Lastly, she pressed a small kiss onto his temple, that he half-consciously turned his face towards.

When she straightened, Dingo and Pierce were still watching her nervously and trying to appear sober. She said nothing as she started towards the staircase.

"Uh, you aint mad?" Pierce broached; she halted, glancing back at them calmly, then uttered some of the most terrifying words ever heard from a woman.

"I'm fine." About to continue upstairs she had another thought, "Dingo, your shift starts early tomorrow. There's a spare room here if you need it."

Without another word or waiting for his response, she continued up the steps. At the top she stopped as if to catch her breath, then disappeared into her bedroom.

* * *

It was midmorning the next day, sun bright, but air icy. The Boss glanced down at her phone, then at the rusted number hanging on the front door of the worn down Californian bungalow.

"Yeah, this is the one…" she murmured, voice obscured by the gas mask over her nose and mouth; you could never be too careful when checking out abandoned meth labs. Dingo and Mongrel were behind her, also covered and neither of them thinking this was in any way a good idea.

"Can hardly remember the last time I walked into a place like this," Dingo murmured with a croaky voice and drained expression. It was only a small hangover, enough to function.

When they'd left that morning, Gat was still 'asleep'.

"I can go first?" Mongrel offered, a tentative hand on the Boss' shoulder. His only response from the woman was a roll of the eyes; she leant back and with a huff, kicked the door in. A few wood chips flew where the lock broke and it banged back, creaking to a halt when a hinge finally gave way.

The house was curiously empty, though with a wet feel to the air. A sickly odour was seeping in to their masks; they could only imagine how rank it was without them.

Scanning the first room they saw it was empty, and heard no other signs of life in the place. The Boss paused, thumb stroking the gun where she gripped it.

"Mongrel, you clear this floor then check out the basement," she said, glaring up the staircase, "We'll look up there."

They parted ways, the floorboards creaking under their feet as the Boss started up the stairs, breathing heavily. She felt tired quickly, her legs already slowing by the time she reached the top. The thought that it couldn't possibly be normal briefly flashed over her mind, but she was on a mission. Not the time for distractions.

At the top of the staircase the hallway split into a T; She nodded to Dingo to take the way to the left, while she moved to the door on the right. Giving it a kick open her aim flung into the room, on a razors edge ready for a target. But there were no signs of life in the space. Her gun slowly lowered as she walked the room.

It was cleaner than the rest of the house; benches lined the walls, a table sat in the very centre of the room. But aside from that it was empty. What had her attention though were the dust marks; square voids, swishes and swipes where things had been moved. A lot of equipment had been in that room, and it had been removed recently.

"Nothing in here," she heard Dingo call to her from the next room, his footsteps suddenly halting. "Uhh… Boss?" he ventured; she turned to see him in the hallway, gun raised and pointing at something she couldn't see.

"What?" she broached and in an instant strode over, edging out of the hallway, her pistol ready. Looking down the hall she saw just _what_, though Dingo still decided to clarify:

"…Naked dude."

It was a young, thin man, his skin a sallow grey and his eyes sunken into dark circles; and he was completely nude. He lifted his gaze to them, apparently lucid as he snarled.

She didn't know how to describe it. But just looking at him, she could feel it. The sensation of energy and life being sucked from the air, tingling through her own cold blood.

"Zombie," she breathed quickly.

"_What?_ But-"

"Did you check the other rooms?" The Boss snapped, grip on her gun tight. Dingo didn't get a chance to answer, as one of the doors behind them flung open and two more naked people shambled out, one a young woman, the other, a hulking man. Dingo spun, back to back with the Boss. The first zombie was studying her, and took a slow step forward.

"Mère…" it moaned, reaching out. It shambled forward again; with a snarl, she pulled the trigger. A dark red hole splattered it's way out of the grey chest, though no blood ran from the wound. Recovering from stumbling back, the man sucked in a rasping breath, then shrieked, a wretched scream that tore through the house.

The zombies launched forward, and the pair began firing. The shots were deafening in the hallway, drowning out the new commotion from downstairs, bullets hacking their way through flesh. Even with holes being torn out of his body, torso littered with red wounds the zombie flew forward, stumbling only when a hole was taken out of his head and jaw; but still, they charged forward.

"Shit." Was the only word the Boss managed to get out. Usually head shots worked; but then, Carlos' zombie had had a huge hole taken out of his brain to begin with; these may need a more destructive way of being brought down.

She'd raced to reload, as the bleeding man launched himself at her.

Dingo drew his blade when the bullets failed to stop the two racing at him. He turned on the larger of their attackers, grappling with him, knife flying across the mountain's throat and flashing as he stabbed, again and again into the cold, meaty chest. The female zombie gripped at his back, bites raining down on his arms and her broken nails clawing at him. He rolled and slammed her into the wall, grabbing at a fistful of her hair to try and pry her gnashing teeth away from his bleeding skin. With a feral shout his hand flew back, swinging the knife across and stabbing it sharply into her eye. She gurgled a shriek, writhing, giving him the chance to push her off and pin her down. His arm flew in a blur as he manically stabbed, hacking the zombie's face till the creature finally went limp.

Behind him, the Boss grappled with the first drone.

She shouted, throwing the bleeding, naked stranger off her again, finally clipping the new magazine in and turning her gun on him. With a gassy moan the man flung himself at her again, only to suddenly stumble backwards as the top of his head was shot off. The Boss marched up to him, her breathing fast and shallow as she unloaded the last of the magazine into his head, bullets chopping up the wood and splattering blood, bone and brain over the floor and walls.

Her chest was tight, the air thin as she finally slumped against the wall, shadows lurching in at the corner of her vision. Hearing footsteps thudding fast up the hall she lurched off the wall, swiping cold sweat from her eyes.

"Easy, Boss, you ok?" Dingo rushed to her side, a hand on her back that she waved off.

"I'm fine," she huffed. But the air pressed in on her from all sides; rasping, she fumbled to pull the mask from her face, fingers awkward and week. Stars began to dance in her eyes. Her head was swimming, and it was harder and harder to breathe even as she pulled open her jacket, her heart thumping painfully in her chest.

"Boss! Look at me!" Dingo began shouting for Mongrel over his shoulder as she weakly batted his hands.

"Dingo I'm f-"

The Boss' pupils dilated then, blood draining from her face; Dingo only _just_ managed to swoop in and catch her, as she crumpled to the ground.


End file.
